Food for Thought

When it came to everyday meals, my mother was a perfectly adequate if uninspired cook.

Standard evening meals (with the exception of spaghetti every Wednesday and beans and franks each Saturday), consisted of mashed potatoes, two vegetables - one green and one yellow or orange - and some variety of meat, chicken or chops, an inexpensive pot roast or meatloaf. But when it came to desserts and breads, there was a time when she could and regularly did outbake everyone I knew, both my grandmothers included.

In her kitchen, there were rules with no exceptions. Artificial ingredients were absolutely forbidden - the very idea of whipped cream from a pressurized spray can offended her and the mere mention of a sugar or salt substitute could get you unceremoniously tossed out on your ear. She shunned the use shortcuts and most anything that needed to be defrosted. No ready made mixes where allowed and the concept of margarine was too insulting to be discussed. When she made strawberry shortcake, it was from scratch - fresh berries and cream whipped by hand served in flaky, still warm pastry shells. I began coming to terms with her alcoholism when the shortcake was served on store bought spongecake with frozen strawberries and Cool Whip. There were no more marathon Saturday morning baking sessions, no more fresh breads or egg tarts or slabs of apple pie with sweet, sticky juice and a hand laid criss cross crust. She wouldn't admit it, but she'd always baked by memory and instinct and with both beginning to fail, she found having to rely on an actual cookbook to be degrading - it hurt her pride. Any damn fool can cook out of a book,

she wept to my daddy after a disasterous mixup with sugar and salt and an inedible banana cream pie. And with that she put away her baking dishes and mixing bowls forever and we came became a Saralee and Aunt Jemima family.

Not long after that, the house I'd grown up in was sold, my daddy moved in with my grandmother, and my mother found a place in the country where she spent her days alone and didn't cook at all except on weekends. The isolation allowed her to drink without discretion or recrimination and it was here she began a gradual descent into the fuzzy world of dementia and eventually cancer. The cabinets in the tiny kitchen bulged with cereal boxes and multiple stacks of canned goods, rotting food cluttered the kitchen sink, the refrigerator reeked from spoiled milk and moldy packages of meat but the liquor cabinet was always fully stocked, a half dozen or so six packs of beer crowding out the back up stash of icebox manhattens in their slim, dark, dust-free bottles.

My mother's table - too often the prelude to an after dinner battle with food as the fuel - became a place to play cards, fold clothes, and answer letters. She was right about any fool being able to cook from a book and I learned to make green beans and porkchops and the like - but I never took much pleasure in the kitchen and I never, ever stopped missing that shortcake and apple pie.

The Owl in the Oak Tree

The owl in the oak tree had huge yellow eyes. He sat motionless on a branch, blending perfectly with the dusky October light and I would never have seen him but for the light breeze that stirred the leaves for a quick instant. I'd never seen an owl in the city before, never mind in Nana's well kept back yard and there was something weirdly witchy about his presence - I didn't know why, but it was spooky and felt wrong. When I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then looked back, it took another several seconds to find him again, like one of the hidden objects puzzles my daddy liked to work. Your eyes can play tricks on you, he used to tell me, Look really hard then relax your eyes and see the whole picture. And like magic, something I'd been staring directly at and not seeing would appear as clear as day. The owl in the oak tree was like that - shrouded and yellow eyed and mysterious, there one minute and gone the next. I decided that my imagination was running away with me and took a tentative step closer - with a whispery flutter, the owl suddenly spread its wings, turned its yellow eyes in my direction and took flight. I instinctively dropped to the grass and covered my head with my hands but the owl soared well past me and glided away. Had I felt a rush of wind from his wings or imagined it? Nana was calling me to supper by then and I ran to tell her of the owl - the somehow magic owl, I was already thinking - she listened absent mindedly while brushing grass off my jeans then reminded me about elbows on the table and told me to finish my milk.

My daddy arrived not long after, frayed and preoccupied from a long day, too tired to eat. I thought of telling him about the owl but didn't - I'd begun to get the idea that the owl might not have wanted anyone to know about him, that maybe it ought to be a secret. By bedtime, I was certain that he had been a magic owl and that grownups wouldn't have been able to see him anyway, better to keep him to myself. I dreamed of his yellow eyes and camouflage feathers, of being being carried away on his wings and flying into the dark night skies to places only imagination could take you. But time passed, nights got colder, and by the first snow I wasn't even sure he'd been real - an owl in the city wasn't at all likely, I knew, and early fall nights with shadows and lights in conflict could easily play games with your eyes. I outgrew the notion of magic owls in oak trees but never completely gave up the possibility.

There are still early fall evenings where shadows and light play in the oak trees and night birds sing. Who knows that a yellow eyed owl might not be watching from the unfallen leaves, watching and waiting to take flight and show off a little magic.

But for the Grace of God

The rain began in the small hours of Sunday morning, hard, cold and without let up. It's December now and this small southern city, which barely a month ago was so filled with warmth and sunshine, has slid across the threshold to winter. The dogs have to be hand carried out and The Cat Who Lives in the Garage retreats to the relative shelter of that structure. When I bring her food and water, she cries at the injustice of it all - it's cold but dry, I remind her, and she could come inside the house at any time - but she fears these unknown walls and waits impatiently for me to leave. That night the rain beats like pellets on the roof, floods the streets and gutters, and gives me vivid dreams. A crack of thunder startles the cats and they scatter for cover while the dogs, one per pillow, growl and shiver and edge nearer to me. There but for the grace of God, I tell them quietly. The black one nudges my shoulder until I put one reassuring hand on her still damp coat - the small brown one slips under the covers and curls against me - they both whine very softly at the fierceness of the storm and one by one, the cats gradually return and take their places. We all sleep but it's light and restless. By morning, the weather still hasn't cleared and it seems I can't take a step without a nervous animal underfoot. The steady rain continues, pacing itself, I think, conserving its energy and endurance, waiting us out. There's no point in railing against nature but when I finally leave and find myself very nearly ankle deep in water in the driveway, I rail anyway - cursing the cold, the persistent downpour, the flimsy umbrella, the need to work for a living, and most of all, anyone and everyone who is heartless or ignorant or just plain irresponsible enough to leave an animal behind to fend for itself. There is, I believe, a special place in hell for such people and it's never too soon to get there.

Back in the Light

Over the last dozen or so years I've taken hundreds, maybe thousands of pictures of musicians. As photographs go,

this one is far from perfect - I was caught off guard and it's poorly lit and cluttered with microphones - but still it's the only one that nearly made me cry. It's one of those moments when the stage becomes secondary and the emotion between two old friends shows its face despite the audience and the cameras and the chatter.

God gives, but if you misuse, He can take away. A wildly talented and successful singer and songwriter in Nashville can trip and fall and wake up homeless, hungry and broke, living on streets that show no mercy for his plight and no appreciation of his gifts. It's a hard fall into the shadows - family is lost, friends give up, guitars are pawned, reclaimed, and pawned again - days and nights blur into years of lost time and hopelessness. Nobody knows you when you live day to day and wake up under a bridge on a cold, rainy Nashville morning. You might sell your soul for a hot shower and a fix or a drink but even a shave is out of reach until you're ready to climb up and out and even then it's a long haul back to the light - the climb is treacherous with missteps and backsliding on every level. Not many make it and even when you're back on firm ground you can hit a rough patch and lose your footing again. And then, a friend extends a hand, a woman offers forgiveness, an audience celebrates your return - someone in the crowd shouts out Welcome home! and suddenly you're back in the light with a clear mind and a grateful heart and you decide to stay.

That's the story behind this one, very imperfect photograph - a small moment between old friends, a moment when the music begins to play again and the lyrics make sense again.

You've been in the shadows a long time, old friend. Welcome back into the light.

Gunshot to Glass

I watch The Cat Who Lives in the Garage adeptly descend from her perch on the fence and approach the food bowl. She keeps one eye on it and the other on me and my camera, pausing every few steps to assess the danger and listening carefully to the frenzied barking emanating from inside the house. The dogs are not pleased with her presence and they want her - and me, I'm sure - to be quite clear about their feelings. She keeps her guard up and stays alert but when she reaches the food dish she ignores the non-stop barking and concentrates on her meal. In the battle to win her trust, I feel we've reached another milestone but experience tells me that the finish line is still a very long away,

It also occurs to me that trying to befriend this animal ( although to what end, I still don't know ) is an exhausting and highly frustrating process. It's hard enough to build trust within a species - and there you frequently have the added benefit of a common language on your side - while all I have is friskies, a stubborn streak, and a good heart.

Of all the bridges we build to try and connect to each other, trust is the strongest, the most delicate, the most sacred.

It can stand for a thousand years unsupported or come crashing down like gunshot to glass. Once broken, it may be patched and over time, even repaired, but without its original integrity, it can't ever be made as new. No matter how deeply the seeds of suspicion are buried, the heart always knows they're still there, pushing gently and slowly but with great resolve, toward the surface. Each and every day after each and every rehab, I prayed for my husband and myself, wanted so desperately to believe in his sobriety that I was consumed. And always, the disease came back, and with it the inevitable cover ups and lies and betrayals. On the surface, I willed myself to believe, but deep in my heart, I knew - the rebuilt bridge was in serious and mortal danger of collapse and I was afraid I might not make it across in time.

I don't know what The Cat Who Lives in the Garage has experienced with humans or what circumstances brought her to my door, only that her instincts to be wary are fully engaged and that she is prepared for betrayal. Convincing her to trust me is likely to be a long and rocky road, mostly uphill and it may even prove futile, but I'm committed to trying.

Stray cats and alcoholics, I think to myself, there ought to be a country song in that somewhere. Meanwhile, the cat eases so close I could reach out and touch her - but I don't. I'm beginning to see that the way she looks me is the way I looked at my husband, through a filter of suspicion, doubt, and a safe distance away. No sudden movements, I remind myself with a sigh, no gunshot to glass.

A Better Class of Horsethief

Mark my words, my Aunt Helen said darkly as she adjusted the bow on her silk blouse, I pride myself on my tolerance but breeding will tell. No good will ever come from allowing the child to associate with the lower classes.

Oh, put a sock in it and have another drink, my love, Uncle Eddie advised, You spend too much time in that Beacon Hill elevated atmosphere.

Helen, dear, my grandmother added sweetly, More sherry? Your glass is empty. Again.

Aunt Helen sniffed in her overly delicate way, produced a lace handkerchief from her cashmere sweatered sleeve and glared first at her husband, then at her sister in law, but, I noticed, accepted a third or possibly fourth glass of sherry. The dispute was over her proposal that I spend a year or two at her elite girls school - I was in need of what she called "finish and polishing" - it made me sound like a manicure, I had complained to Nana and then made it clear that I would rather die then take one step over her snobby threshold. My grandmother had smiled, a little bitterly to be sure, but reassured me I had nothing to fear and my daddy had laughed outright at the suggestion, earning a look of pure malice from Aunt Helen's side of the table.

Really, Guy, she had said sharply, Are you against the child's betterment?

His usually gentle eyes narrowed at this and for once, my daddy - always the pacifist and peacemaker - spoke without thinking first. Would she learn better manners than you have, Helen?

There was a moment of shocked silence before Aunt Helen abruptly excused herself and hastily fled the room, lace handkerchief clutched in one white knuckled fist. Uncle Eddie sighed hugely and poured himself a generous sherry but made no move to follow. Well, my grandmother said mildly, That went well, Edgecombe. Nothing like a little class warfare to clear the air.

My fault, my daddy muttered, I know she meant well.

The hell she did, Uncle Eddie shrugged, She meant to hit a nerve. She's never gotten over her great grandfather being a horsethief.

Several pairs of eyes turned to him in disbelief.

Oh, yes, he sighed, A better class of horsethief to be sure, he started as a schoolteacher, but they hung him all the same. Damn fool woman's still not over it, always been afraid someone would find out and ruin her reputation at that stiff necked school. Christ, it was over a hundred years ago!

Nana began to laugh, softly at first and then wildly until tears were welling up in her eyes. My mother joined in, my daddy followed, and finally even Uncle Eddie gave in, his shoulders shaking so hard that his sherry spilled on the linen tablecloth. It took him the rest of the day, after we were all sworn to a lifelong silence, for him to coax Aunt Helen back and my daddy had to make an apology - before witnesses - but there was no more mention of my changing schools.

Scratch a saint, find a sinner. Or maybe an unrepentant horsethief.

Misdirection

And this I have learned - some people are born to destroy each other while others are meant to stand aside and watch. It's a lesson in sickness and perversion and detachment.

My friend Henry, now residing in a third nursing home, in part due to an incident of abuse which resulted in his wife's arrest, sits and almost desperately tells me how it's his fault. It's been a year since his stroke and he's made no visible physical progress - his left side is dead weight, he can't walk or care for himself, his muscles have atrophied and become useless. His mind, however, is fully engaged with misdirected bitterness and blame and a twisted, enraged sense of self pity. The mood swings are violent and he lashes out with uncontrolled, unmedicated fury at the closest target - his wife .She responds with equal brutality, with equal verbal abuse and finally flings him out of his wheelchair. Another in a long series of 911 calls is made and when the firefighters arrive, they in turn call the police. She is arrested and led away in hysterics and handcuffs, he is left alone.

A week later, I hear all this over a sad, lonely lunch in the nursing home dining room. For three solid and painful hours I listen as Henry recites a litany of his faults and launches a full out defense of his wife. She just isn't cut out to be a caregiver, he tells me, she works 80 hours a week, supports him and pays the bills, does everything for him and in return he provokes her, blames her for the stroke, smashes anything he can reach with his cane, complains and demands more than she can possibly give. The police arrested the wrong person, he tells me, she is an angel with a heart of gold, and terribly, dreadfully misunderstood. He has made her what she is, he tells me and his eyes fill with tears - no one ever sees what he puts her through before she breaks down and explodes. She's the real victim, he tries to persuade me, Everybody has it wrong.

Even it that's so, I say, she doesn't have the right to hurt you.

Nothing hurt but my pride, he says with a hopeful smile.

This time, I tell him and he laughs and pats my hand.

Some people are locked together in sickness and denial, born to destroy each other yet unable or unwilling to be apart. The rest of us watch and worry and wait to pick up the pieces. It's a mystery, part illusion, part misdirection,

but no magic.

Cherry Tarts & The Cupboard Mouse

Eye to eye with the mouse in the cupboard, my Aunt Vi promptly shrieked, Lord have mercy! and immediately fainted.

Now what? my grandmother grumbled as she removed a baking pan of cherry tarts from the ancient oven and placed it on the counter, What is it, Vi?

There was a low moan from the pantry and Nana impatiently made her way to the small room off the kitchen. Mouse! my Aunt Vi whispered from the floor where she was cowering against a cabinet, white faced and wide eyed.

Viola, my grandmother said wearily, I swear you faint at the drop of a hat!

There was no mouse to be seen by then although the bag of sugar he'd been nibbling on showed tiny but distinct teeth marks and there were smudged tracks in the spilled sugar. Nana, spatula in hand and prepared to do battle to the death, flung open each and every cupboard door, but the little rodent, wise in the ways of cupboard living, had long since fled. Nana added cheese and mouse traps to her shopping list and before sending me off to McIntyre's gave me a stern warning, Not a word of this to your mother or I'll tan your hide! I'll never get her into the pantry again if she thinks a mouse might be waiting! With the dogs at my heels, I trotted off, already scheming about mice and my mother, plotting ways to put them together without getting caught.

You see, my grandmother explained later, You bait the trap with cheese - the mouse snatches it and the trap springs and breaks his nasty little neck.

I had no particular feelings about mice but I was horrified at this savage prospect. Why can't we catch him and let him go? I asked.

Nana frowned and gave me a disapproving look. Because he'd just come back, she said a trifle impatiently, And he'd bring friends and they'd bring friends and in no time we'd be overrun. She softened just a little when I began to cry.

You have to understand - with mice, it's them or us. There's no other way and besides, it's very quick, practically painless.

Looking at the deadly little wooden traps, I had my doubts but I shouldn't have worried for after several days and all the traps having been sprung, not a single mouse had been executed. Nana set the traps each night and removed them each morning before my mother could stumble upon them, but there were no tiny mouse corpses. Sometimes the bits of cheese were gone and sometimes they weren't - it seemed our mouse was a clever little creature, probably with some experience in the area of mousetraps. Nothing! my grandmother would disgustedly mutter as she collected the empty traps. She disliked being outsmarted by a mouse.

The great mouse hunt came to a sad and surprising end one foggy summer morning. Nana had made a fresh batch of cherry tarts and left them to cool on the kitchen counter while she made the beds. My mother rounded the corner of the room with a bundle of clean clothes in one hand and the old iron in the other - when she saw the mouse up to his whiskers in the cherry tarts, she reacted not with her usual panic and screams, but with one dead on pitch of the old iron - it caught the mouse squarely on the head and the poor thing tumbled into the tarts, dead as a doornail. Only then did my mother let loose with full blown hysteria, collapsing on the floor in a pile of pillow cases and wailing at the top of her lungs.

Nana and I buried the mouse (and most of the cherry tarts) beside the blackberry brambles while my mother looked on from a a safe distance away. We had no more trouble with mice that summer, Nana ordered a new iron from latest Spiegel's catalogue, and my mother - who had so loved cherry tarts - gave them up for life.

Thinking will not overcome fear but action will.

W. Clement Stone

Reservations Not Required

I get more than my fair share of invitations this time of year - single people seem to generate a need in others to reach out and share family holiday times. I always appreciate the gestures, they're sincere and well meant and kind, but I always say no. I'm happiest sleeping the day away and not being reminded of my own family dinners - the pleasant ones at my grandmother's are almost too fuzzy to remember and the ugly ones are too clear to forget. I don't really relate very well to happy, loving families, football games and afternoon naps - my preference is solitude and quiet and sleep - and maybe some warmed up red beans and rice.

I give thanks for today, for the roof over my head, the animals in my bed, the friends who understand and don't pressure me to join them, for the life I've redeemed.

At the local soup kitchen, Thanksgiving dinner starts with a simple prayer and ends with music, all provided by people who give up their own time to do for others. The homeless and the disabled, the addicted and the poor and the forgotten all line up for an hour's worth of refuge. There's no big screen television, no dressing up, no overstuffed chairs, no fancy dinnerware, just warmth, plenty of food, and a touch of God's grace to welcome you in and then send you on your way. No reservations are required and no one is turned away from this table. I think of this place when I feel ingratitude prying at the corners of my mind, when resentment for all that I don't have overshadows all that I do.

There is a genuine sense of family here in this small, shabby building - of sharing and giving thanks, of tolerance and respect for self and others. Outside the doors, they are struggling and impaired people but inside, they are children in need of a meal and a friendly face, a place to rest and be safe - they are souls in search of family and better times.

Truth is, they are you and me and everyone. There is sadness here as well as hope, charity as well as dignity, and compassion without condescension.

So come Thanksgiving Day, I will sleep in and be grateful in my own way, as I hope, will we all. And for a few hours, I will share my time with others who have far less to be grateful for. It seems a good way to spend the day, a good way to say thank you and remember that everyone should have a place at the table.

Dixieland

My daddy kept his record collection on a shelf in closet by the front door - Pete Fountain, Pee Wee Hunt, Al Hirt, King Creole, and my own favorite, The Preservation Hall Jazz Band of New Orleans. Dixieland was the very first music I ever heard and came to love in my whole life.

On a perfect November afternoon, I sat on the grass just a few feet from this amazing group of men, all in black suits, white shirts and ties, and listened to a faultless blend of drums, piano, and horns. I've rarely felt so lucky or so carried away and I couldn't help but think how my daddy would've absolutely loved this day. There were people all around me, applauding and dancing, children being swung in the air in the arms of parents, shutters clicking a mile a minute. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, glorious.

If anything bound my daddy and me, it was music. We played it, listened to it, talked about it and loved it. My mother was lukewarm about it and neither of my brothers cared in the least, but my daddy and I were die hard fans, it was in our blood and our hearts and we couldn't have imagined life without it. He taught me chords from the time I was old enough to reach a keyboard, played me blues from New Orleans and Chicago until I knew every note, told me stories of playing in a band in the army. I knew all the names, famous and unknown, could recognize a style and signature of a player after just a few notes, knew their stories and histories. Each time he brought a new record home, he waited until the house was empty then we listened together. It made him smile, tap his fingers and feet, made the sadness in his eyes lighten.

Mostly he played the piano but every now and then he took out a battered old clarinet, handled it delicately and played along with the records. At the farm, he strapped on an accordion and along with my Uncle Byron would play til the cows came home while the rest of the family sat around the old dining room table and listened. Even after I was sent to bed, I could hear it and often fell asleep to the sounds of makeshift dixieland and improvised ragtime. It was better than a bedtime story, more comforting than milk and homemade gingersnaps.

Music called to my daddy all his life. He would truly have loved yesterday and I like to think that just maybe he heard it.

All Souls Together

My cousin Linda's ghost story ( inthesamevein.blogspot.com) captured my interest immediately - in part because it was mysterious - who doesn't like a good ghost story - in part, because I admire her writing, and in part because I like the idea behind it, that anything is possible if we are open minded and just a little bit brave.

The thought that the circle of life doesn't end with death comforts me far more than the ideas of heaven and hell I was taught as a child. I don't think of myself as a highly religious person, but I do rely on my sense of spirituality in most if not all things - we are all, so I believe, connected on one level or another - with each other as well as some higher power on some higher plane. It's only one short step to the next level, that life continues in ways we don't recognize or understand and that every soul, including my beloved four footed ones, has a shot. If ever I am to encounter a restless spirit, I hope I will be curious and not afraid, brave and not disbelieving. If I hear footsteps in

an empty house or a cry in the night, I hope I offer to help and not run for cover.

I think we all leave something behind for others to remember, to be guided by, maybe even to follow. It helps, of course, to be a romantic and accept the movie versions of the afterlife with angels watching over us and keeping us from harm - a Brad Pitt or a Will Smith at the end of the road, beckoning us into the sunset is hardly anything to fear. My idea of heaven is Rainbow Bridge and a reunion with the animals I have loved all my life - it will be smoke free and sunny and at the edge of an ocean with the blues playing in the background.

Cleaning out my grandmother's house after her death, I sensed her presence in every room. At my friend Scotty's memorial, I was sure he was watching and listening. I can still hear my friend Ran's dry sarcasm at my stubborness and still hear the music my friend Danny made.

Ghosts are everywhere, all souls together.

Listen Up

It's the better part of human nature to want to help someone we care about, especially if they're in trouble - we're all, I suspect, fixers at heart - wanting to make things better, make dark days easier and lighter, ease a burden or take away a heartache. We don't like to see friends hurting, worse, we don't like admitting that there's nothing we can do. We park the white horse at the rail, dismount and prepare to take up the challenge of repairing whatever's broken, rarely thinking that maybe all we can or need to do is listen. Not every hardship is a cry for help and not every victim is looking for a white knight or a handout - sometimes all you need to know is you're not alone - such times are for listening and listening again, then listening some more. It's not as ineffective as we might think but it's also not as easy as it sounds.

Most folks I know, myself included, do not idly wait well - we are generally designed to act rather than observe and often see patience as passivity. Cures don't come overnight, no matter how needed or deserved. When I first joined Al Anon, I thought it was remarkable that no one comforted the mostly women members when they told their stories in faltering, uncertain voices, or when they broke down and cried. No one went to their side or offered more than a kleenex - the old members knew better than to tell them it would be alright or that it would pass -

sometimes it wouldn't be and sometimes it doesn't. Initially I took this for coldness, not grasping that listening is an act in itself, that there are times when it's all we have to offer.

When I'm tempted to counsel or give advice, I try and remember those meetings and how it felt to have people do no more than listen. Our choices are our own - we live with the outcomes or we don't, but either way it has to be our decision. If we listen long enough, the words may echo back and when we hear ourselves as others hear us, we may just find a way through.

A doctor can prescribe.

A therapist can guide.

A priest can absolve.

A friend listens without objecting.

A Little Leftover Lust

He's almost young enough to be my son, this dark haired musician with the good time smile and the carefree, classic good looks, and I find myself feeling a quick flash of heat when he leans in toward me and asks to buy me a drink. It's nearly a forgotten feeling and passes swiftly - just a momentary reminder that I may be older, but I'm not dead. He grins, pours me a coke, and takes the stage with an easy, unselfconscious flair. If I were only twenty years younger, my friend BJ sighs and I nod. I know exactly what she means.

It's reassuring to know that my hormones still work - if perhaps a tad erratically - and that the sight and nearness of an attractive man can still make me sit up and take notice if not outright stir my blood. I find myself vividly aware of his hand resting on my shoulder and the faint smell of cologne when he kisses my cheek, I notice what he drinks and what brand of cigarettes he smokes, pay attention to the way he carries himself. These are signs of life and I'm glad to have them reawakened. There's nothing here to act upon, Lord knows, but at least my senses are intact - better to wear out than rust, I like to think - and when I raise my camera and focus in, he looks straight at me and gives me a wink. This distracts me, makes me laugh, and not only do I miss the shot, I find I don't really mind.

I love this life of smoky bars and light hearted flirtations, of music played for the love of music, of margueritas and pool tables and late nights that don't end til early morning.

My energy, sexual and otherwise, is invested in capturing the images and the passion behind them. I'm only held hostage because I want to be.

Even so, my heart skips a beat at that sexy, seductive on stage wink. It responds while my mind is otherwise occupied and my flesh is weary and I kind of like it that way.

Silly Putty & Promises

I bit innocently into the tuna fish sandwich and cracked my teeth on something jagged and hard, sending a small shockwave of pain into my jaw and causing me to yelp with surprise - when I spit, out came a filling but since it didn't hurt, I ignored it until I realized that my tongue would seek out the vacant rough spot every few seconds despite orders from my mind - and that did hurt. I considered the alternatives - the tooth is scheduled to be pulled in a couple of weeks, didn't seem much point in making a bridge loan dentist appointment. I thought maybe I could pack it with chewing gum and let it harden, creative but probably not terribly effective in the long run - then I thought of Silly Putty and wondered if it was toxic. In the end I discovered the dental equivalent - a soft substance that hardens with moisture, is tasteless, and best of all was right there on the drugstore shelf. Feeling smarter than the average bear, I followed the directions, rolled a small portion into a ball and then packed the tooth firmly and slid in my bridgework effortlessly. My tongue still wants to go there but all it finds is a smooth surface. I was, I admit, pretty well pleased with myself.

There are times when I think the world turns on band aid fixes - Silly Putty and duct tape, for instance - designed to bridge some kind of gap in the system and provide temporary relief - but fundamental problems aren't so easily solved. Like it or not, at some point the real issue is going to have to be confronted and a real solution is going to have to be uncovered, a fact the politicians (among others) refuse to acknowledge.

The doctor has solved his staffing problem by sending our second receptionist to our other office two days a week.

Two years ago he promised it would be temporary - a year ago he swore it would be only til the first of the year - and eight weeks ago, he assured her it would only be until our second nurse was back from maternity leave. All that has come and gone and she still travels the 120 miles every Tuesday and Thursday in an unreliable old Camry that just last night broke down and caused her (and her husband and her seven year old) to not get home until after midnight. Each time she talks with him about this, he has a new and compelling reason to go back on his word and while the reasons are legitimate enough, the fact is that in our common people's world, a promise is a promise. It shouldn't be given lightly or superficially and it should never be given if you have no intention of keeping it. If you routinely promise what you can't or choose not to deliver, you're planting the seeds of distrust and it makes no real difference that you almost meant it at the time - a con job, even when wrapped in ribbon and pretty words, is still a con job and a broken promise can't be mended by Silly Putty or duct tape.

If you give your word, stand by it. It may not matter to you, but it matters to someone else.

A Matter of Stealth

The Cat Who Lives in the Garage eases through the latticework and with quick, light steps that barely disturb the fallen leaves, makes her way up the driveway. She gives me a look that most certainly could be a reprimand - I'm late with her supper and I suspect that she wants me to know it. Like most people I know, guilt is second nature to me and I hear myself apologize before I remember that she is a trespasser and not an invited guest. She stealthily slips through the double doors and vanishes before the dogs even notice her presence.

There's always enough guilt to go round, I've learned. When it doesn't occur naturally, we're more than capable of manufacturing or ordering it to go and a stray cat or two speeds up the process. Coming home quite late one night, I saw what at first I thought was a rat on the curb of a downtown street - it turned out to be a young kitten, drinking from the gutter. I tried to keep driving, I always do, but guilt pulled me back and I spent the better part of an hour trying to coax him to me. He meowed and followed me but drew back if I got too close and my instincts told me it was a useless effort. A dark street in a bad section of the city is no place to be alone at 3am and I finally gave up and drove away, feeling dispirited and sad, as if I'd abandoned him. I drove back the very next day and for several days after that but there was no sign of him - reminding myself that I wasn't responsible and that I'd tried didn't absolve me in the least - the guilt felt natural and I carried it with me.

Guilt, not unlike a cat, is a creature of stealth and surprise attacks. It creeps up on its target silently, looking for a way in, preying on failure and inner doubt. Logic is pitifully ineffective against it as it thrives on the chaos of emotion rather than the order of reason - knowing that you have nothing to feel guilty about doesn't do much good when you're already feeling guilty. I once read that you can say "no" without having to provide an explanation - but I've never learned how. I was taught that anger is an emotion that always performs solo, that you can't be angry at someone you love nor they at you. It's not true, not even close to true, but it's a good way to mold a mind and grow a sense of guilt and fault that rarely fails.

Here's what guilt gets you - The Cat Who Lives in the Garage has spread the word and after I set out a dish of fresh food and a new bowl of water and spend twenty chilly minutes coaxing her to me, she finally consents to get near enough to cautiously eat. When she's done, she cleans her paws and whiskers and then wanders off to do whatever stray cats do when they're not playing the system. In her place, a long haired black cat with huge yellow eyes and a big, bulked up tortoiseshell arrive and make themselves at home. They don't bother with stealth or discretion - guilt has paved their way.

Oh, dear.

No Next of Kin

As so many folks had predicted, Miss Vera outlived them all.

She'd married at sixteen, was widowed, alone, and raising two sons by twenty. Seeing the remainder of her life as a long and painful struggle, she left the boys with a close friend and took an early morning ferry to the mainland, in search of a future less dark. Three marriages and three life insurance policies later she returned, financially secure for life and ready to resume motherhood. Despite the fact that her parents had died during her absence, that she was nearly forty and her boys grown men who barely remembered her, it seemed not to have occurred to her that she wouldn't be welcomed back with open arms. Where she had seen providing for her family, the village had seen child abandonment. Where she had seen personal sacrifice, the village had seen neglect and selfishness. Her sons were polite, as they had been raised to be, but they felt no connection to the woman who suddenly appeared on their doorstep and the reunion was shortlived and tense. All Vera's attempts to explain were received with a coldness she found shocking and soon after coming home, she found herself alone again, living in a rented cabin designed for summer use - her house had been long since sold for taxes and neither of her boys offered her lodging.

Convinced that the islanders would come around in time, Miss Vera decided to wait them out. She bought the old Titus place around the cove and moved in over one autumn weekend - when she found that none of the locals were willing to work for her, she hired mainland laborers who came and went all winter long. I want it done by spring! she had told them in no uncertain terms, My boys will be coming home then and I expect everything to be perfect! In public, the islanders watched impassively and from a distance but in private they chattered like monkeys about the waste of time and money and mindset. Kinder voices used words like misguided and tragic while the harsher ones prefered to say that Vera was reaping what she had sown and that it would it be a failed crop.

The renovations were completed by mid May, just as the weather turned warm and the summer people began arriving - the house had been transformed from a dilapidated and neglected old wreck to a showplace - it shone with fresh paint and new shingles, window boxes of ivy hung from the upper story and the newly enclosed glassed in porch gleamed. Miss Vera's meticulously cared for old Mercedes sat ready and waiting on the just laid circular gravel drive and the roses were beginning to bloom. Vera herself, spent her days in her curved rocking chair, watching the dusty road and reading while she waited for company that never came. She was sitting just so when news of the accident came - both her boys had perished in a late night car wreck on the mainland. James and Lilly, her first and only visitors since her return, came to tell her and make arrangements. Vera thanked the pastor for his kindness in coming in person and gave Lilly a kiss on the cheek before resuming her place in the rocking chair, her book clutched in her shaking hands, her dry eyes staring across the cove at the outgoing tide.

The double service was held four days later with most of the island present and Miss Vera noticeably absent. It was said that she was still in her rocking chair, still watching the tide, grieving in her own way and surrounded by empty rooms. When she died some forty years later, she willed the house and all the contents to the island's historical society.

She outlived them all and had no next of kin.

Rx: Quick Fix

When it comes to broken bones, seems like we get our xrays, submit to the casts and splints and painkillers, and wait them out. We don't expect fractures to heal overnight or magically knit themselves back together. When it comes to broken minds though, we search for the quick fix as if it were an enchanted answer - a little fairy dust sprinkled in the right direction and we'll be good as new, chaos will be calmed, reason restored, and emotions rebalanced and realigned, like tires that drift left or right when you take your hands off the wheel. "Better living through chemistry" to paraphrase DuPont.

It's difficult to watch much less understand a frail mind fighting against itself. There are celestial highs and subterranean lows while the middle ground is rocky and uncertain. Nothing is impossible on a high and nothing can be endured on a low - the space the rest of us occupy on a more or less full time basis is strange terrain - mood swings can mow a mind down or shoot it off like a firecracker. It takes a stunning amount of effort to maintain these mental and emotional acrobatics, let loose your grip and you risk freefall without knowing what direction you might go or at what speed you might travel.

Del and I had been friends since the 4th grade - we walked to and from school each day, shared classes, helped each other with homework, and spent Saturday afternoons at the movies. In high school we double dated and kept each other's secrets, spent hours on the telephone, took our very first solo shopping trip downtown, swore loyalty and friendship for life. Then unaccountably, in our junior year, she turned from friend to stranger right before my eyes - no explanation, no life altering trauma, not even a mild disagreement - she withdrew, became dark and silent, and eventually would not see me. Her new friends were thugs and dropouts and in her senior year she was caught dealing drugs, arrested and sent away. She came back the following summer and I would sometimes see her walking along Route Two, head down and hands jammed into her pockets, a cigarette clamped in the corner of her mouth and collar turned against the wind, always alone. The one time I tried to talk to her, she looked at me with dark, dead eyes and shuffled away - there'd been no recognition in those eyes, I realized, no emotion one way or another. I had no idea what had taken her or where but I did know it was too far away to reach and I was even beginning to suspect that it wasn't anything I'd done.

I never did learn what happened - there was speculation about drugs and the consequences of keeping bad company, there were rumors of mental illness - but it was all over my head. All I knew was that I'd lost a dear friend and didn't know why - there was no fix for it, quick or otherwise.

Photographing Alfred

A musician friend of mine has asked me to take pictures of her guitar - not your every day request, but one that makes sense to me - it's been a friend, companion and shoulder to cry on for most of her life - she's a one guitar kind of girl and I agreed immediately.

Most of the musicians I know and photograph have a unique and often intimate relationship with their instruments.

Guitars are so much more than wood and wire and lacquer - they have a life of their own, a partnership of sorts with their performers, a personality and a character. Some have traveled far and wide and some have barely left home but all are lovingly cared for and carried with pride, they have memories and histories and are much more than mere possessions. I've seen guitar players nearly meld with their instruments, coaxing and encouraging and praising them to do their best - they rarely disappoint and I suspect I will enjoy this particular photo shoot - it's an honor to be asked to do it, important that I get it right.

Any good photograph has more than one dimension. In nature, you try to capture the overall sense of wonder and the amazing power of simple things like sunsets and abandoned bird nests.

In sports, you look for that singular moment of triumph or defeat.

In portraits, you're aiming for the inner self of your subject, the character and experience of the old faces and the soft focus aura of the young and innocent ones.

In animals, it's the personality and the love behind the eyes.

And with musicians, it's the passion - sometimes beautiful and sometimes flawed - but always with an element of something that surpasses the melody or the lyrics, as if they hear and understand the music differently. You can see their journey and even when it's not pretty or gentle, even when it's built on pain and abuse and one failure after another, it's strikingly redemptive. There may be instant successes in many things - music is rarely if ever one of them. It may be why the faces are so etched and careworn, even the pretty ones.

All of my music photographs attempt to capture that feeling, that elusive, not always seen underneath. When I succeed, I almost feel it myself.

Release the Kraken..........

In this case, the Kracken was the aftermath was having my last four,poor, lonely teeth extracted in preparation for a full set of dentures - an adequate amount of anaesthesia and a generous supply of nitrous made the process as easy as falling off a log - it was a classic case of "wake me when it's over" but regrettably, neither the anaesthesia or the nitrous lasted long enough and the Firorinal was only enough to dull the pain. I crawled into bed, numb and uncomfortable, hoping to sleep for three days or until I was pain-free, whichever came first.

Three days of narcotics, sleep, and mush have worked their expected magic and I am mostly pain free and a little hazy but there's no way around it, being toothless is an odd sensation. The upper plate, surely as perfect at the hands of man could make it, fits like a glove - the lower, however, needs additional adjustments and will not be ready for another day or two - shockingly, even my Hollywood handsome dentist is not infallible - so rather than venture out and risk a careless smile, my plan is to stay put and continue my hibernation until Monday. This is all the ineveitable result on neglect and I have no one to blame but myself. Still, after so many years of root canals and crowns and fillings and abscesses, it's a huge relief to know that I will soon have perfect albeit manufactured teeth. Any minor discomfort or accommodation it takes will be well worth it. After some sixty years of dental terrors and crippling, paralyzing fear, the Kraken has been tamed and returned to the deep.

My phobia about dental work has been with me for most of my life and I honestly never thought I'd see the day when I could walk into a dentist's office without unraveling and sit in a chair without the risk of a heart attack from fear or the sudden break of an artificial nail. It took every ounce of will I could summon, plus a healthy dose of valium not to scream, cry, and run from shame and terror. Finding someone who calms these fears - and I have no earthly idea how he does it, not even now after 5 extractions although I have a strong suspicion that the lack of drilling has more to do with it than with his good looks and ridiculously comforting sense of humor - is an absolute godsend. Oddly enough, we've never talked about my fear - he seems to have over come it without even trying, as if he took it from me and put it somewhere far away when I wasn't looking.

The Kraken is no more.

Crisis Center

In the midst of Monday afternoon chaos, an image from a greeting card flashes through my mind - a three story cartoon building with flames pouring from every window, crookedly crashing over a waterfall - the sign above the door reads Crisis Center. This one image sums up the day - the phones have been non stop, six patients not on the daily schedule have strolled in demanding to be seen, the doctor is already an hour late for surgery and fussy - and despite the overall sense of doom and disaster, when I think of that greeting card I have to smile.

The doctor delivers a chart to me and explains that the patient is leaving the country, going to Holland, of all places, and that we will see him when he returns. What language do they speak in Holland, I wonder, he muses more to himself than to me and without thinking I immediately say Hollandaise and to my surprise he laughs outloud and the tension retreats. It's good to laugh, he tells me with a broad smile and a wink, snatches up his next chart and ducks into a exam room. The remainder of the day races by, still chaotic and stressful but a little more manageable.

Living life crisis to crisis is wearying and very often a waste of time and energy. It is good to laugh, to take a step back and remember not to take ourselves with such deadly seriousness - our next to last patient trips gaily in, singing a song from Sesame Street ( Conjunction Junction, if I'm not mistaken) and clad in tights with horizontal stripes, red shoes sprinkled with glitter, and a peaked witch hat. A black and orange oversized scarf is draped around her shoulders and neck, each cheek is rouged and face painted with a jack'o'lantern and in one hand she carries a bright purple plastic pumpkin full of candy. She gives us a suspicious look until her granddaughter gives her a reassuring hug then she flutters her clearly fake eyelashes and shyly says Trick or Treat! while holding out the purple pumpkin in our direction. The patients in the waiting room recover from their surprise and laugh and applaud as the granddaughter leads her gently to an empty chair and she resumes her song, Brought to you by the letter T, she sings to herself, T for trick or treat. Her granddaughter gives us a helpless look but there's no shame or apology in it - she's studying to be a nurse and understands dementia all too well - Halloween party at the nursing home, she says with a sigh, We didn't have time to change.

The image of the burning building going over the falls flashes through my mind again - it may not be all that far off the mark but it's still a cartoon and not nearly as strange and funny as real life.