The Party Line

My grandmother gave the crank on the old wall mounted telephone box a vigorous twist, picked up the receiver and said Twenty-one, ring three, please, Elsie.

Elsie had been running the island's switchboard from her neat, little home across from Curt's Store for as long as anyone, even my grandmother, could remember. She was what was referred to as "a widow woman", a frail-looking, petite slip of a thing with a tone of voice that could melt butter or cut through granite, depending on her mood. Any call made to or from the island went through Elsie and she was an oracle of information who had little use for the notion of privacy. She and my grandmother had been friends for all their lives.

Elsie's switchboard was an impressive, old timey board with a maze of push and pull plugs, flashing lights and buzzers and tiny rows of numbers. Theoretically, she was on call twenty four hours every day, but telephone service frequently depended on her domestic chore schedule. If it was wash day, calls might or might not be placed promptly, if at all, and if Elsie had walked down to McIntyre's for groceries or to Curt's for snuff, calls simply died on the vine. Islanders had become accustomed to this and didn't much worry. Tracking someone down on an island twelve miles long was not an especially difficult thing to do - for a nickel, any child would run off in search of someone and deliver a message. Elsie served but liked to remind everyone that she was not a servant. She did, however, answer any and all calls placed in the middle of the night. She knew, as did we all, that

such calls were likely to be emergencies - someone sick or hurt or missing - and she was a vital link for such times, alert and efficient no matter the hour, ready in an instant to notify the volunteer fire crew or the doctor, on those rare occasions that we had one. Elsie was a first responder before the term had been invented.

She retired at the age of eighty something and handed over the lines of communication to the

Melanson sisters. Technology had simplified and automated things by then, telephone service had become something that needed to be overseen rather than provided. Fittingly, Elsie had the first so called "private line" but she was suspicious of it and rarely made or answered calls. Her's had been a job done long and well and she resisted and resented the changes, saying the personal touch had been lost and would never be found again.

Too Little, Too Much

To die at forty-five is to have been robbed. Too little time on this earth and too much left undone. I have lost another friend to a deadly cancer - a young man with a sweet smile, many gifts, friends too numerous to count, and a family who loved him dearly. He was an artist in every sense of the word, talented and generous, optimistic and brave, giving and grateful. His death is one more reminder that God's gifts are transient.

I saw him play several times yet for some reason I have no pictures of him. I waited on him often but can't remember what we talked about. Before he became ill, I ran into him all the time and he would give me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek or wave to me across a room full of people. We shared a love of photography and music and I knew how much he loved his travels to Rome and how he had fallen in love with the old city. He spent a great deal of time out of the country and I often wouldn't see him for months at a time then unexpectedly would read that he was scheduled to perform at a bar or a benefit. He always drew a crowd. A local photographer took the last picture I ever saw of him, a stark, stunning, black and white shot. He was achingly thin, terribly frail looking, clearly very ill, but with a little help he climbed onto a stool and sang. He was almost too weak to hold the guitar and his voice was painful to listen to but he sang until the pain forced him off stage. He was dying but he wouldn't give up.

I read of his death in this morning's paper, at home with his family in the small Louisiana town where he had been born. Short of a miracle, there had never been any hope of recovery for his type of cancer, a fact which some hoped gave him a measure of peace. He used his time as best he could, knowing that each day mattered and was precious, that each waking moment was fragile and fleeting. He had too little time and left too much undone but he was here and was loved.

Whiskey Solace

When I met him, Andrew was already in his sixties, a tall, elegantly thin man - manicured and tailored, attired rather than dressed, carrying a cane and smoking imported cigarettes from a silver holder. He was a regular at all the bars in town, haunting them from early afternoons until well into the nights. He was what I came to think of as "Jimmy Stewart" drunk - always charming and courteous with a style and flair all his own. When he became unsteady on his feet, he would find a comfortable chair and sit with a slight smile and a martini glass. His driver sat outside with the Mercedes while Andrew read his evening newspaper and drank himself into a blurry oblivion. He was never loud or agitated, never pushy or braggardly, never caused the first bit of trouble for anyone. He minded his own business and drank himself into a gentle melancholia where he found escape and peace from an unkind world.

He had made his money in real estate and oil, had attended Columbia, married well and raised children. He was well liked, educated, successful, wealthy and came from a fine family. He had been a good son, good father, good husband, good businessman - he had worked hard and achieved his goals, had acquired all the trappings of a good life - and then discovered that none of it made him happy. He retired early and began drinking out in the open, making no effort to disguise his alcoholic intake and taking no offense at those who would change him. He slipped in and out quietly, a handsome, dapper man who tipped his hat to every lady and knew every bartender's name. Thank you, my dear, he would tell the waitresses or The usual, if you please, to the bartenders and later they would find a fifty or hundred bill had been left.

He sought and almost always found the good in people, overlooking their flaws with ease and a gentle empathy, hoping for the same kindness in return. He accepted his many companions for who they were, bought drinks generously, never turned away anyone who appeared to be in need. His friends were from high society and low, he embraced them all and he died before his time of a failed liver, leaving his demons behind. In this world, Jimmy Stewart said in "Harvey", You must be oh, so clever ..... or oh, so pleasant.

Tattle Tales

Nobody likes a tattle tale.

For whatever reason, the need to curry favor results in hurt feelings for someone as well as a breach of trust. Children deal with this better than adults, I think, perhaps because of their youth and directness, perhaps because of their lack of fear. An adult tattle tale is more complicated - I find myself searching for motives, trying to discover the underlying agenda, trying to comprehend why someone would tattle rather than simply speak up and out directly. Grown up tattle tales are about control, preserving position and strength, sending reminder messages not to challenge authority. Grown up tattle tales are about power, manipulation and hierarchy, the ability to get someone else in hot water and the need to demonstrate that you can do it. It's a puzzle. There is, it seems to me, precious little benefit to the tattler, except that they look and perhaps feel superior. I wonder if it might not be that tattle tales are insecure and can only prop themselves up by dragging another down.

If there's nothing to carry tales about, a child will go off in search of something while an adult will create an issue out of whatever is handy. We build mountains to watch others fall trying to climb them.

The Stalker

She is completely motionless in the tall grass, not even a tail twitch to give her away, iron-cladly focused on the small dove pecking at the ground some twenty feet from her and nothing distracts her. She waits until the dove turns it's back then takes one silent step in it's direction before sinking back to the ground. She becomes a statue, the slight breeze barely ruffles her fur. Her patience is remarkable, her attention to the dove is intense and unbreakable. The dove pecks on, to all appearances, oblivious of her presence, and she takes another step or two toward it, then freezes and returns again to the ground. She watches and waits with military precision and meticulous timing. When the breeze stirs again and the dove turns away from her, she extends one paw then the other and her body follows almost in slow motion, closing the distance with deadly accuracy - twenty feet becomes fifteen, then ten. The dove continues it's pecking, peacefully unaware of the ever closer peril. Over head, the squirrels begin their morning olympics through the trees. Traffic noises get louder from the street as a bus rolls to a stop at the intersection and a siren goes off from down the block but in the backyard the drama plays out uninterrupted. The dove is joined by another and the cat is now barely five feet away, noiseless and unnoticed in the clutter of morning, her long, lean body low to the ground and absolutely still. The doves hunt and peck like chickens, still not sensing the danger or supremely confident that they can outfly it. She suddenly tenses and springs and the scene erupts - pebbles spray through the air and a cloud of dust rises, there is a screech and the doves take wing unharmed. She is left on the ground below in an impotent crouch from which she emerges and stretches, washes her face with one paw, and casually walks off toward the alley. Having done her best, she is comfortable with her loss and will not dwell on her failure. She has other fish to fry, the day is young, and the adventure is just beginning.

Toy Soldiers

"The shortest distance between two points is always under construction." - Rebecca McClanahan

The little girl on the playground was sulking. She sat crosslegged in the sand beside the slide, head down and hair hanging across her face, little hands scrunched into fists with a look that suggested she was about to cry. No one paid any attention to her and now and again she glanced up at the other children with a petulant expression, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. She dug her fists into the sand with quick, angry, wanting-to-hurt shoves.

The little boy sat on a bench nearby, pretending to ignore her in favor of a box of a toy soldiers he had spilled into his lap. A soldier in each hand, he played his make-believe battles, crashing them together with soft shouts. He waved the winning soldier in the air for a moment then retrieved the loser from the ground and began again. As he reached down, he surreptitiously looked in the little girl's direction, frowning slightly but making no move to approach her.

After a time, the little girl threw a handful of sand in the little boy's direction. He pretended not to notice and she threw a second handful, this time including some small pebbles. When he looked up and at her, she immediately looked away. He deliberately turned his back to face away from her and she threw a third handful of sand and pebbles, this time with a little more force. The little boy threw his soldiers down and stormed toward her, gave her hair one good pull and then stood over her, hands on his hips defiantly. She reached for his ankle and pinched and he yelled and kicked sand in her face. She jumped to her feet and after wiping her tears away with one grimy hand, shoved him with both hands, knocking him down. Although he wasn't hurt, his surprised look instantly turned to tears, and he was on his feet and racing after her in a second.

They both reached their mother at the same time and began squabbling and trying to outshout the other. After separating and shushing them both, she dried their tears and asked for an explanation.

There was silence and neither would look at the other. She shook her head, scolded them equally, and sent them off in opposite directions. They came back one at a time, each pouring out their unhappiness and blaming the other, each eager to complain about the other but not willing to talk to each other, not willing to try and resolve their differences directly.

Sometimes the difference between adults and children on a playground is that the children don't know any better.

The French Dentist

When my first dentist finally retired - none too soon for his patients, I thought - my mother found another to take his place, a statuesque, dark haired woman with a pronounced French accent who favored stiletto heels and diamonds.This was my very first visit.

Her name was Francine and her practice in an upscale Brookline neighborhood was thriving. Nonetheless, she was a dentist and she inspired terror in me. I was old enough then to travel to and from her office on my own, the public transportation system in Boston being nothing if not widespread, and those afternoons on the train were long and dreary with no prospect of survival. By the time I arrived, I was undone - shaking with fear I couldn't articulate and often in tears and unable to breathe by the time I reached the elegant waiting room - there were oriental rugs and

impressionist paintings, loveseats and antique chairs, soft lighting and classical music in the background. Incense burned to cover the smell of antiseptic and I would huddle in a corner chair, trying to be brave, hoping for invisibility, and failing miserably at both. An assistant would lead me into a treatment room and Francine would appear, looking like a fashion magazine cover model and chattering in French, a language I did not find reassuring. She would smile at me with her perfect teeth and gesture with her immaculately painted nails while I contemplated the likelihood of suffocating from her perfume. It seemed an acceptable and even preferable alternative.

In the chair, I closed my eyes and desperately recited (in my head) every prayer and psalm that I could think of, lyrics to the current rock and roll hits, the alphabet, the state capitols, the presidents, anything that I could think of to distract me from the smells, the sounds of metal instruments with sharp points, the god awful drill than sprayed cold air on sensitive teeth and in an instant could make me rigid with a kind of nightmarish terror. This was the stuff of

emotional breakdowns and psychotic breaks. I was too frightened to speak and could only grip the arms of the chair with an iron intensity, keeping myself in place by sheer will which I feared would give way the moment I was told to open my mouth. I heard stilletto heels approach, Francine's multi-charmed bracelets jingled in my ear, the wrapper was torn off a hypodermic and blessedly and finally, I fainted. My last conscious thought was to silently blame my mother for not caring about my teeth.

I survived the Francine years, more or less intact, and thanks to the kindness and understanding of the dentists who followed, have made some progress with my phobia. Forgiveness, however, is out of the question.

Factory Girls

The Howard sisters were as different as night and day.

Vanessa was the oldest, a tall and slim girl with an inclination toward, as Nana said, unfortunate men. Glory was a few years younger, chubby and short, with a liking for any man at all. My grandmother had put them both on the forbidden list very early, saying they did not come from good stock and would constitute a bad influence on me. Naturally, I couldn't wait to spend time with them both. It was said that their parents had never married and although both were still living on the island, they did not live together and rarely spent time in each other's company or with either of their daughters. Van and Glory lived in a rambling, ramshackle old house in the middle of an open field across from the dance hall. It was rumored that the floors were of dirt and that they allowed livestock to live inside with them but no evidence of either claim was ever produced.

Both girls followed in the footsteps of the majority of the island women and by the time they were in their teens were old hands at factory work. They walked past the house each morning and evening, side by side in identical dress, each carrying a lunch pail and a hair net. They grew up on factory work, spending eight hours a day deep with the old factory building, on their feet, doing assembly line work as mindlessly as everyone else. They talked "women talk" - children, food planning, the latest from the Spiegel catalogue and of course, the standard fare of gossip. At the end of the day, they were two of many weary and worn out women who trekked back home tiredly, heads down and shoulders hunched over. Factory work was no easy life - mind numbing sameness for long hours and low wages and the sisters wanted more than the factory or the island men had to offer. One fine summer morning they simply did not appear for work. The talk began immediately but none of the gossip was even close - they had not run off with the scallop fleet, not been abducted, not eloped with married men, not quarreled and shot each other and neither was pregnant. They had simply pulled up stakes, borrowed a boat and crossed the passage at night and headed for the big city. Neither was heard from for years until a brothel in Halifax was raided and the owners were arrested and got their pictures in the paper. Good God Almighty! Nana exclaimed one morning over coffee, It's Van and Glory!

In time, both girls returned to the island - to retirement, comfort and no small celebrity. They lived the remainder of their lives quietly, chastened, reformed, and well to do. They were different as night and day but still sisters whether in shame and scandal or wonder and awe.

Thin Ice

"The best way out is always through it." - Robert Frost

Through the clouds to the sun, through the mud to the bank, through the tough times to the good. This is how we live and die and hopefully leave some kind of legacy. My friend Tricia has credited me with persistence, determination, and an iron will to survive. So as I sharpen my survival instincts and draw up a new economic survival plan, I try to remember her words and how much her friendship means to me. I try to believe, not always an easy task when life takes you down an unexpected and rocky road. Having faith is uncommonly hard facing an uncertain future and a wagon full of changes and cutbacks, none of which you've prepared for, but there is often no other way than to face front and put one foot in front of the other for as long as you can. Staying on your feet is a win when you're walking on quicksand and fear suffocating.

I wonder how other people less fortunate survive at all.

Chapter & Verse

My mother knew chapter and verse about soap operas and games shows.

She made beds to "Search for Tomorrow" and started supper to "The Match Game". Each day she sat with her crocheting or knitting and worked by feel with her ears and eyes captivated by the old black and white tv. She disliked interruptions of any kind and often wouldn't even answer the telephone except during the commercials. We learned to fend for ourselves after school and not bother her - there were always egg tarts or brownies to be had if we were hungry - and homework to hide behind. If she was at all aware of our comings and goings, she paid no mind. We didn't bring friends home or have sleepovers or have someone stay to supper. The unpredictability of addiction was paramount and the risk of some irrational and unexplained upheaval was too much to chance. She simply wasn't like other mothers who helped with homework or took you shopping or picked you up from a practice game. She didn't attend parent teacher conferences, didn't come to watch little league, skipped the Christmas pageants, was too busy for any of the recitals and couldn't spare the time to help with school projects. If parental involvement was called for, it fell to my daddy or someone else's mother and we were grateful - none of us wanted her exposed or out in public. We might not have been able to articulate the notion of shame, but we understood it and it's repercussions all too well.

There were no fingerpainted pictures taped to the refrigerator, no blue ribbons or gold stars or A+ papers on the bulletin board. No school events made the calendar, she didn't know the names of the teachers, had no idea of the grades we brought home. Addiction insulated, protected, and isolated her from the routine of motherhood. As a general rule, it did the same for her children. It was a very long time before we realized that our's was not an ordinary home, that other mothers were active and interested in the lives of their children, that they were involved and participated. Other mothers showed up when it mattered while our's hid behind alcohol. It was a conflicted and confusing time, caught between shame and gratitude at her absense, and feeling that neither emotion was exactly right, but without knowing precisely why.

In the first grade when we began to learn to draw and color, Miss Edwards asked that we paint a picture of our family. I painted my daddy, our dogs, my brothers and myself. When Miss Edwards asked about my mother, I said the first thing that came into my head - that I didn't have one. The lie came easier and it wasn't all that far from the truth.

A Day Late and A Dollar Short

My lawyer adjusted his bi-focals and shuffled the papers on his desk before looking up at my soon to be ex-husband and then frowning at me. A word, he said quietly and getting to his feet, steered me out of the office. In the hall, he crossed his arms and cleared his throat, meeting my eyes with a professional sterness. This, his voice calm but firm, is a mistake. He wanted an agreement that would secure me a lifetime percentage of my husband's income, I was entitled to it, had earned it, he assured me, and my husband wouldn't fight it. You need to let me write this in, he repeated, trust me. I took a deep breath and dug in, Absolutely not, I said fimly, I don't want his money. We had covered this ground before but couldn't reach any kind of agreement. He felt that I was making a decision on false pride and would come to regret it. I was feeling feisty, searching for a way to be independent for the very first time, determined to make it on my own. I wanted no pity, no soft words, and absolutely no charity, especially from the man I was divorcing. My freedom was within sight and I refused to compromise it by accepting long term funding which I suspected might have long term strings attached. My lawyer saw things quite differently and although he tried every argument and every tactic, I would not be moved. The papers were signed - against his legal advice - and we moved on.

Stubborness is in my genes and, as I did then, I often confuse it with self respect. The hard times that followed my first divorce and then my second would've been considerably easier with a supplemental income source and even now perhaps I would not have had to take a second job, but as my grandmother frequently told me, the milk is already spilled, best to clean it up and get a fresh glass. Long term thinking and my philosophy of "One day at a time" seem to be on a permanent collision course and I walk a fine line to keep them both in balance.

I've worked since I was fourteen - summer camp counselor to nurses aid to the telephone company to copywriter for a radio station. Administrative assistant for a theater renovation project to executive director of an animal rights group to college bookstores. Administrative assistant for an independent jewelry maker to camera store to modeling agency. And now with my 59th birthday behind me, I'm going to work two jobs to keep body and soul together, a day late and a dollar short, but still on the road. Whether it be stubborness or self respect I'm still not sure.

.

Double Dares & Dish Towels

The roll of wire fencing had been carelessly left leaning against the back wall of the tennis court. It was a little over my height and a couple of feet thick but the center was hollow. Dare you! my brother was yelling with a menacing laugh, Double dare you! I knew better, of course, but I had a fierce desire to wipe the smug look of his twisted face and silence that nasty laugh. I was also about eleven, so in I climbed. I discovered instantly that "in" was going to be a picnic compared to "out" and predictably, as soon as I was in, my brother mounted his bike and rode away.

The only way out was up, holding onto the top of the roll. It's edges were barbed and very sharp and when I finally managed to get a grip, the wire tore into my hands and snagged on my clothes. Between the pain and the blood, I was very nearly panicked and though I yelled my heart out, no one came. When I did finally get out, my hands were cut, my clothes were torn and at the last minute a stray strand of wire had caught my upper arm and opened a long gash which was bleeding at an impressive rate. I began the walk home in dread with hate searing at me from within. The wound to my arm took a dozen or so stitches and I had to have a tetanus shot. My mother sat fuming in the emergency room and I knew the worst was yet to come - disturbing her afternoon routine was bad enough but forcing her to leave the house was downright suicidal and, as she pointed out for weeks, I had ruined some of her dish towels trying to stop the bleeding from my arm. Blood never comes out once it's set, she snapped at me as the young ER doctor sutured my arm, What were you thinking? He have her an odd look but said nothing and we rode home in a bitter silence.

I was sent to my room and denied supper. My brother sullenly claimed to have been elsewhere all afternoon and to know nothing at all about what had happened. I watched him lie as effortlessly as breathe, saw my mother side with him at once, heard my daddy's tired sigh at the commotion. The hate grew hotter and slowly began to improvise a life of it's own. The injustice of the incident burned bright, fueling the hatred and feeding my resentment. Vindictiveness is not a pretty emotion and each time I saw my brother's face smirking behind my parents backs, I hated more. I told myself to let it go but the fury hung on with an ever tightening grip and I began to seethe with rage and plan his destruction. I added up all the similiar wrongs he had done me and gotten away with, and the hate turned white hot and began to slip into my dreams at night.

Fifty years have passed and I can still call it back at will. The power and endurance of negative emotions is nothing short of miraculous.

Colorado Cowboy

He was taller than average and wore a straw cowboy hat to cover his baldness. His grin was almost shy, filled with mischief as he told stories about Colorado and Nashville, shaking his head and stepping back at the punch line with a hopeful look toward his audience. When he began to sing, I thought of syrup being poured on hot pancakes or ice cream melting - his voice was rich and the words blended almost to the point of being hard to understand. His songs were poetry, beautiful words and metaphors - most were nostagic and impossibly sad - they were life songs about broken hearts and lonliness, dying, the pain of change and loss, memories of lost things. Yet all seemed to suggest hope and a very gentle sense of faith and optimism. There was an indelible spirituality in his lyrics. When he changed gears in the second set and sang about cities and their slogans - based on bumper stickers - his audience laughed out loud and he gave them that little boy smile after each song. At the end, everyone stood, clapping and calling for more. He was a joy to listen to and a pleasure to shoot.

I'm always struck by the genuineness and down to earth qualities of the house concert performers. No matter what they sing or play, they are real - with families and troubles and mortgages. They are gifted and they share their talents openly. Their stories are true and their humor ironic, touching, and creative. They are, for the most part, folk singers and bound to a tradition of story telling and
protest, of songs based on actual events, of the emotional journeys we all take. They take living and set it to music and the evenings with them become very intimate and very special.

The Colorado cowboy's name was Chuck Pyle and his music stirred the souls of all who heard.

Old Horses

The back pasture at the farm extended past the pig pen and into the woods. On a clear summer afternoon, my daddy and I walked all the way to the trees and the good, clean smell of fir and pine was everywhere. We could hear birds and the far off sound of water, small creatures in the underbrush scurried away as we approached. The pasture was rocky and the rocks were patchy with damp moss and lichen. Sunlight filtered through the trees and the light played games with the shadows, the sky had nearly disappeared. We walked all the way to the small lake and back again to the barn and the old plow horse standing quietly in his stall. Flies buzzed and I could hear the random lowing of the cows, the infrequent rattle of an old car raising dust as it passed. We led the old horse out and my daddy lifted me up on him then took the reins and led him toward the vegetable garden. Hold his mane, my daddy said, but not too tight. The dusty old horse walked obediently, his hooves clacking on the rocks, head held high, tail swishing at flies. The cows were coming in, their bells echoing in the soft air as they plodded up the path and I knew it would soon be time for my uncle to meet them and settle them in for the evening. Ruby would be putting supper on the old wood stove. At the edge of the trees, my daddy turned the old horse around and gave me the reins, Take him back, he told me with a smile. He fell into step with us, silently smoking, hands in his trousers pockets and eyes on the ground. The leathery smell of the reins and the old horse was in my nose. Once in the stall, he showed me how to take off the reins and then how to groom and brush and feed. I hugged the horse's neck and began to cry for no reason. The horse whinnied, a gentle and loving sound, and my daddy gave me a sugar cube to feed him. His huge brown eyes seemed to thank me. We left the stall with the sun low in the sky and the smell of the old horse on our clothes, walking slowly toward the farmhouse, hand in hand. I love horses, I told him and he squeezed my hand and said Me too.

The Other Side of Help

Sometimes you have to hurt to help.

With multiple injections of anaesthesia and a healthy dose of nitrous oxide to boot, it was all I could do to keep focused on my own breathing, but from the next treatment room I could hear someone crying and whimpering, No, please, no. I could also hear Bill's gentle voice, trying to comfort and calm and for a few moments there would be silence then the crying would begin again. My heart broke for the young woman and for Bill who I know would rather cut off a hand then inflict pain upon a patient. I knew every pitiful cry was cutting him to his core and that whatever the procedure was, he had no alternative. When my visit ended, I learned that the young woman was in her late 20's or maybe early 30's and was suffering an infection following root canal surgery. Her jaw was swollen, she was in excruciating pain and it was one of those really hateful situations where she was going to have to be hurt to be helped. It was agonizing for everyone and the atmosphere in the office was tense, distraught, and on edge. We are not prepared or trained how to intentionally deliver pain to one another and less trained to witness it. Her suffering unnerved me and I left as quickly as I could, wanting only to be as far away from her cries as possible and at the same time, being slightly ashamed of my own unease.

My face was numb from the cheekbones down and I knew it would be several hours until all the feeling returned but I was outside, walking in the bright sun. Others were not so lucky and I said a short prayer of thanks for myself, and a slightly longer one for the young woman still in the chair and those trying to help her.

Gull Rock

Gull Rock stood near the breakwater around the Old Road. It was massive - wide as a house and easily as tall as a two story building. The gulls congregated there each morning and afternoon, so thick that you could barely see the top. They screeched and pecked at each other and from a distance it appeared as a solid, gray-white cloud formation. Layer after layer of guano had built over over time and the old rock was weathered and worn down. Nana claimed to be able to predict the weather by the activity of the seagulls and each morning she checked on them, standing on the side porch, eyes shaded against the bright morning sun. Only after that did she plan her day. Red sky at night, sailor's delight, she taught me, Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

Davey Allbritton got the idea to climb Gull Rock simply because no one had ever done it. There was nothing to be gained by it, we told him, you reach the summit and you're ankle deep in seagulls and birdshit. But Davey was stubborn and he began to make his plans. He measured, sketched the rock from every angle, took pictures with and without the gulls, with the tide in and the tide out. He considered and discarded several possible climbing methods -
ladders, weights, even a parachute drop - the last he dismissed as impractical as he hadn't a plane. Eventually he designed a complex system of ropes and pulleys, weights and counter weights, harnesses and a safety net. He planned his assault for the last week in August and after taking an oath of secrecy and saying a short prayer for high tide and calm winds, he told us when and what time.

The day dawned bright and crystal clear and I crept out of the house undiscovered. Gull Rock was already covered with birds and the closer I got, the louder the noise became. Hundreds of seagulls were resting or flying on and over the rock, soaring and diving in patterns clear only to them. Davey was already on the rocky beach and laying out his equipment. He had thrown ropes across the rock and weighted them down on both sides with buckets of bricks and stones. He had fashioned the ropes into a makeshift ladder and up he climbed, hand over hand, step by careful step. The gulls flew in agitated circles over his head, some even attempting kamakazi style dives at him but he waved them off. He had soon actually reached the top and stood, hands raised toward the gull-filled sky in a gesture of triumph, delicately maintaining his balance on the slick guano and dodging seagulls at the same time. Behind him there was a brilliantly rose colored sky and in front of him a wide open ocean. Also behind him, although unbeknownst to us, was my grandmother who had witnessed the entire expedition from the side porch and could scarcely believe her eyes. Beside herself at the prospect of Davey's imminent demise, she had crossed the blackberry patch, jumped the ditch, and was bearing down on us at record speed. In her silk robe and flat soled slippers with her hair undone and flying around her face, hands bleeding from the blackberry thorns, she was an awesome sight. She reached the guardrail and pausing only to draw a breath and began screaming at the very top of her lungs, DAVEY ALLBRITTON GET OFF THAT ROCK THIS SECOND AND DON'T YOU DARE FALL!!

A startled Davey lost his balance and saved himself a breakneck fall by clutching the rope ladder for dear life. As he started back down, an avalanche of curse words poured from my grandmother in between her shouts of MIND YOUR FOOTING! and DON'T LOOK DOWN! When Davey was again on safe ground, she sank to her knees, one hand gripping the guard rail, the other pressed to her chest, breathing hard and breathing fire. We scattered before she could begin again but of course were all rounded up by breakfast and returned to her in the back of Uncle Shad's pick up truck. We were a sorry bunch, except for Davey who refused to be repentant. He stood with his hands jammed into the pockets of stained jeans, jaw stuck out in defiance. In exasperation, Nana gave him a firm swat and sent him home with his word that he would tell his folks what he had done so that she wouldn't have to. The rest of us were lectured severely and at great length, scolded about the dangers we'd invited, and how badly she had been frightened. She held out her bloodied, bandaged hands with a See what you did expression that made us all cringe with guilt.

Nevertheless, Gull Rock had been conquered.

.

House Rules

At first glance, the thing skittering across the kitchen floor appeared to be the size of a small wildebeast. When my cognitive senses kicked in, I realized that it was a cockroach and I screamed.
My husband jerked out of his lazy, Sunday afternoon in front of the tv, jumped to his feet with a muttered curse, What the....... he began and then saw the thing. With enviable presence of mind, he calmly slammed his boot heel down and ground the vile thing into skeletal remains. It made a crackling noise that made me want to retch.

I do not consider myself a woman prone to nerves or delicacy. As a child, I had watched autopsies, baited my own fishing line, played with lizards, seen kittens come into the world. I don't faint at the sight of blood or panic easily and I'm not susceptible to sudden vapors so my reaction to this nasty but non-threatening insect was a puzzle. Granted, I'd been startled by it's sudden appearance and granted, it was an impressive size, but nevertheless it was still only a cockroach - a survivor if ever there was one, radiation-resistant and for all practical purposes, indestructible. None of which bothered me, I finally realized, as much as it's ability to skitter. And there, I had, at long last, identified the problem. I don't like things that skitter - they make me jumpy and they move so fast that it's impossible to predict what direction they'll go in which means that it could very well be over my bare foot. And that is what I'm really afraid of.

Time, of course, has passed since that day. I still see the occasional cockroach but I no longer scream, I simply crush them into oblivion without the slightest qualm and dispose of their wretched broken shells with a sense of satisfaction and higher purpose. House rule: If you skitter, you die.

Handle With Care

The black dog - nearly ten now - crawled to the top of the couch and promptly fell off with a thud. There was no sound for a second or two, then she appeared around the corner of the couch, eyes downcast, one back leg off the ground. She had re-injured her knee, likely dislocating her kneecap again, and as gently as I could I lifted her to the couch and laid her down. It wasn't long before she fell asleep. This will slow her down for a bit and Lord knows she looks pitiful with her awkward three legged gait but she'll adapt and adjust. She is just beginning to face the fragility of age and I comfort her as best I can.

Would that I could do the same for myself or my family and friends. We are all beginning to be more fragile, more aware and careful of the damage that a fall could do, more conscious of the danger of a misstep. We are gradually learning to live with our minds more on an unseen hazard control button - we pay attention when climbing stairs or hanging pictures, lifting something heavy or stepping out of the shower. We have always been frail creatures but never really knew it. It takes longer to heal now, longer to recover and get back. And we hate the limitations, the caution, the awareness. It doesn't seem fair to have survived all the foolishness and emotional wreckage only to be suddenly brought face to face with aging. And yet, at the same time, this is a wonderful time - full of freedom and promise, changes and challenges. We have survived this far, reasonably intact, with maybe just a little more wisdom, a little more patience, a little more kindness. We have mastered the art of moving on, past pain and bad luck, broken bones and promises. Now we have to master being careful. There are times when life seems to be a long, uphill climb and others when it's a gravity- driven rush downhill on your butt. I often find myself wondering what in the world happened to neutral, to middle ground - I don't seem to be able to find it.

The black dog, however, has no such issues, she knows only that she hurts and her instincts tell her what to do to minimize her discomfort. She walks carefully, favoring her leg and following her instincts. She is aging with more good sense and less trouble than I am.

No Chocolate Cows

Chocolate milk, my daddy told me, intently seriously, comes from chocolate cows. Then he immediately picked up his newspaper.

From her rocking chair. my grandmother Ruby cleared her throat and gave him a frown but held her tongue. The rest of the family nodded in agreement. Why, certainly, my Uncle Byron declared, head down and eyes lowered to the business of lighting his pipe, Had one for years. Ruby cleared her throat a little more forcefully and glared at her eldest son. I looked around the dining room table, going from face to face of my uncles, aunts and cousins. Those who would meet my eyes were straight faced, those who wouldn't busied themselves with a speck of dirt on the floor or an untied shoelace and Aunt Ivy became suddenly positive she had seen a mouse dart under her chair. My daddy was studying the newspaper with all his attention. There was not a sound until my grandmother put aside her mending, lowered her spectacles and beckoned me into her lap and began to laugh. Child, she said, giving me a hug, You can't believe everything people tell you, especially the people in this room. There are
no chocolate cows. My daddy lowered his paper and tried to apologize but there were tears in his eyes from
laughing and he made a poor job of it. Finally he took my hand and led me outside, down the veranda and to
the apple trees where he lifted me up to the branches and climbed after me. He explained he had been teasing and that it had been wrong and that he was sorry but he wouldn't promise not to do it again. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes and I knew that was as good as I was going to get so I settled. We stayed in the apple tree until Ruby rang the supper bell then he carried me back inside on his shoulders.

My daddy changed around his family. He became more at ease, laughed more often, accepted his own ability to be idle. He was a gentle, soft spoken man, always content to take a position in the background but he loved his family and the time he spent with them was precious to him. Sometimes they would chatter like magpies, other times there would be a wonderful, companionable stillness around the table. The family resemblance was almost eerie to me - each looked so much like the other and it grew more noticeable as they grew older. I felt free and safe with the family, I felt significant, even if there were no such things as chocolate cows.

A River in Egypt

My youngest brother had his first drink of beer at a backyard picnic when he was about five. Someone took a picture of him, fuzzy headed from a crewcut, wearing a striped shirt and baggy khaki pants, a can of beer tilted to his mouth and foam on his upper lip. It was, I suppose, meant to be cute.

By the time he was in junior high school, he was drinking every day and burying the beer cans under the backporch. By high school he'd graduated to hard liquor and had been brought home once or twice by the local police. High spirited, my mother told them, boys will be boys. He became a bartender, drifting from job to job in restaurants, bars, downtown hotels, even a local harbor cruise ship. He worked and lived the party life - experimenting with so called recreational drugs, sleeping all day and getting drunk at night. He wrecked a car or two, was arrested a time or two. He hardly ever drinks, my mother assured the police, I can't imagine what got into him. He married a girl who was also a bartender and they took on the world together - all night parties, binges, after hours clubs, fancy cars, expensive gifts. The money ran out and he had to borrow from my daddy to make the rent but he managed to maintain his lifestyle. He'll straighten up after the baby is born, my mother declared, you'll see.

At their first Christmas after the baby was born, there were drinks before dinner, drinks and wine with dinner, drinks after dinner, drinks in between and drinks for the road. The liquor cabinet was a maze of scotch, rum, boubon,

vodka, gin. There was a case of champagne chilling on the back porch, several cases of beer on the unheated side porch, two car trunks full of brandy. They do a lot of entertaining, my mother said, they have to be prepared.

As defense mechanisms go, denial is at the top of the list. That which we don't acknowledge can do us no harm,

that which we refuse to believe can't be real. We don't have to deal with those problems that don't exist. It's a pleasant, un-conflicted world when we close our eyes to the reality of pain, or heartbreak, or addiction or truth. My brother had discovered early that alcohol could dull the pain, could make things better if only for a little while, could step between him and real life. The more he drank, the more he needed. The more he drank, the more distance he could put between himself and those who cared about him. He was sheltered, protected from the consequences of his actions, never forced to be accountable. My daddy, having a lifetime of experience with my mother, simply shifted gears for his son and got him out of one jam after another. He widened his safety net and made sure that nothing closed in, no consequences, no penalties, no healing.

Denial is more than just a river in Egypt.