Choose with Care

“In the end,” Nick Catricala wrote, “We are our choices.”

Somewhere in the space between the darkness and the light, there may be a precious few seconds where you get to choose between hope or despair, flight or flight, yesterday or today.

It’s a good time to honor the moment.

When this plague passes and we are able to resume our lives, what, I wonder, will we have learned and what, if anything, will we be willing to change. Even if the greedy, selfish and stupid among us are substantially decreased, I’ve lived seven decades and I suspect it will be very little of either. Since the 2016 election, I’ve come to realize that we aren’t built to care or consider others or share even a small amount of kindness. We are out for ourselves. From the highest elected office to the lowliest among us, we have become the very essence of “I’ve Got Mine, Fuck You”. It’s running rampant in government, in religion, in medicine, in business, in education. It’s not confined to any class or political party or skin color or socio-economic level.

We may be, as I recently read, all in the same storm but we’re most definitely not in the same boat. Those that have will survive and if the current government has its way, likely thrive. Those that don’t will be sacrificed. Oh, a few of the idle rich may not be able to buy their way out of the virus and a handful of the poor will recover in spite of not having medical care or equal footing, but in the main, ignorance, arrogance racism, and avarice are going to carry the day. It’s cruel, it’s callous, it’s unfair and it’s unforgivable but it’s what we have become and perhaps most shameful of all, we’re proud of it.

After a decent meal and a good night’s sleep, I am able to regroup and re-evaluate and re-locate that tiny spark that might be optimism. Hope isn’t exactly springing eternal and the light at the end of the tunnel could still be an oncoming freight train or flamethrower but the fog of despair has lifted slightly. I search for and find something positive to hold onto – some small sign of sanity and accountability in a world gone mad. I remind myself that there are more good people than bad in the world and though the bad make for better and more attention grabbing headlines, the good do not give up. And sometimes they win.

Peace At Last

Chalk it up to morbid curiosity but every few years I make a small effort to see what’s going on with the people I have left behind. It’s how I learned my second husband and brother were dead, that my other brother’s first born had OD’d on drugs and died, that a precious friend had a grown son who had become a reasonably successful musician, and most recently, that an old lover was in the hospital. Except for the last, I felt no need to do anything, no urge to reach out and re-connect, no desire to make peace or amends. Except for the last, the past is the past and as the popular saying goes, I’m not going that way and will not look back. Except for the last. When you feel you have failed someone you love, there’s no amount of time or distance that can ease the guilt. It retreats and regroups, seduces you into thinking you’ve gotten past it, and then slams back at you when you least expect it. It’’s a nighttime intruder with a lethal weapon and darkness on his side. Too late you realize you left a window open.

After a nearly lethal stroke, which left him paralyzed on one side, he has spent the last several years in and out of rehab hospitals and psychiatric wards and nursing homes. At one point, he was calling me 4 and 5 times a day, in tears, incoherent and desperate, pleading with me to help him. The calls were agonizing and futile – I had no standing to do anything – and in time to preserve my own sanity, I changed my number. It felt like the worst kind of betrayal but I saw no alternative. I talked often and at length with his daughter, more to assuage my own guilt than anything else, and she assured me she understood and that I shouldn’t feel it was my responsibility. Technically he still had a wife, she reminded me, although they were separated and she would soon be arrested for multiple counts of domestic abuse and assault against him and in the meantime she promised me she was working hard to move him to her state where she could care for him. I allowed myself to be convinced but it never happened and over time I persuaded myself that I’d done the only possible thing and I stopped letting myself think about it.

I tried to remember him in better times – he never lost his British accent and his sense of humor was quick, sharp and desert dry. He loved animals fiercely, thrived on clutter and chaos, drank far more than was good for him, was passionate about a good Indian curry and loved his child beyond words. Despite her severe mental illness and relentless abuse and alcoholism, he never completely abandoned the woman he married and allowed her to dominate him. Loyalty was only one of his his fatal flaws. He never thought he was meant to be happy and was terrified of leaving the frying pan for the fire. I coaxed, pleaded, reasoned, promised and threatened but all to no avail. I finally realized you cannot help someone who is unwilling to give up the things that make him suffer.

He had spent the last few weeks in hospice and his death was not unexpected but even so, it’s a body blow. His presence in my life was a gift. I dearly hope he has found some peace.

Technical Difficulties

Several years ago I had to buy a new refrigerator and Sears kindly gave me an address for a rebate. I wouldn’t ordinarily have bothered but a major appliance is a major appliance and the amount of the rebate was considerable. I thought it would be worth a little time and trouble. Hours and hours later as I was still navigating the forms and trying to find information that they hadn’t given me (and making a number of calls to be told “Wrong department”), I finally realized that the entire process was designed to make you give up. No one was going to part with a dime of precious rebate money unless they were absolutely against a wall. It took hours more time and trouble but out of nothing but sheer stubbornness, I persisted and several months later, I finally received a check and a thank you for my business.

Now, in the age of plague, I understand that this is exactly how government operates. From food stamps to unemployment claims to the Internal Revenue Service and the Small Business Administration loan programs, it’s one long, complicated, convoluted rebate scam, written in doublespeak and meticulously designed to make you throw up your hands in disgust and do without. The portals don’t work, the claim trackers are useless, the websites are a joke and the telephones are not answered. You can’t log on or call in or check status. And if by some divine intervention, you should get on the websites or manage to get into a call queue, you can safely give up the next several hours of your life waiting until the office closes or the website crashes. Either way, you lose. Even a successfully placed claim or application will be challenged if not outright denied (more or less automatically) and the appeal process makes the whole initial application process look like child’s play. It’s all justified by the systems being overwhelmed by the numbers of people needing help or the old stand by, “technical difficulties”. In other words,

call it malice or stupidity or ineptitude or fate, we’re mostly on our own.

I don’t know what we’ll be going back to or whether we’ll have learned anything when this is over. But my gut tells me that no matter what life on the other side of this virus is like, nothing is ever going to be the same again.

Just For This Morning

I am not used to feeling inarticulate but lately, I don’t seem to be able to organize or express my thoughts. I feel weighted down and defenseless with an army of what if’s attacking from every direction. I feel a little anxious, a little sick, a little panicky, and a lot enraged. When I think of all the things I could be accomplishing and am not, I feel guilty, but it takes all my energy and strength just to lay on the love seat and catnap and worry. In spite of what my reason and common sense are telling me, in spite of the fact that I have $3000 in savings, in spite of my knowing absolutely that this will pass, I feel doomed. I have no hope for my country and no faith in humanity, especially the humanity in my part of the country. It’s irrational and unhealthy and morbid but there it is.

I have moments when I think it’s the end of the world and that the current government really is committed to killing us all in the name of greed, profit and reelection. I have moments when the only peace/solace/relief/hope I can find is under the covers with the dogs. I have far too many “What’s the point” moments when I feel sick and suicidal. The world is upside down and coming apart at the seams from stress and uncertainty and isolation and despair. One more story about the lethal shortage of protective equipment or the push for untested drugs or mass graves on Hart’s Island will do me in. One more incoherent and indefensible lie from the president will send me over the edge. One more evangelical extortion ad to send money or burn in hell will make me want to take up arms. In South Louisiana, we have an infamous preacher who is still shouting proud to bus his flock in for Sunday services. I say let them come. Then bar the doors of the church and set it on fire. If their preacher and their God save them, well and good. If not, there’ll be a smidgen less evil and ignorance in the world.

This plague will pass, I suppose, and maybe the world will eventually right itself in time for the next one. Or not if the pestilence that currently rules us stays in charge.

The weekend arrives, although it’s almost impossible to tell one day from another, and I’m up early to be at the grocery store for the Elder Shopping Hour. They are out of Country Crock but there’s plenty of Diet Coke in the 6 ounce glass bottles – apart from cigarettes and Ghirardelli Caramel Squares, the only thing I cannot live without – and then I make a quick stop at the bank to deposit my check (remembering to be grateful for still being able to work and be paid) and I’m done. I retreat to the quiet isolation of my small house and distract myself with the laundry and the dusting and the litter boxes. Just for this morning, I will not give in to the urge to hide under the covers and weep.

The Honest Working Man

May Elizabeth Albright was a hulk of a woman, nigh onto 200 pounds and just shy of 6 foot tall in her stocking feet. It was said she could out work, out drink, out shoot and out fight anyone on either of the islands. An early widowhood had left her with precious few options - she had four sons to provide for when her husband was lost at sea during a hurricane – and she became the only female captain in the fishing fleet by necessity. She was, as the old men who gathered at Curt’s store liked to say, “….an imposin’ figure of a woman…” and not one to be trifled with.

After the second hurricane, when she had to bury all four of the boys she had birthed and raised,

the loss was incomprehensible and the entire village went into mourning with her. It was a full six weeks before she emerged from the battered house overlooking the passage. She spent the remainder of the summer repairing and rebuilding the roof and the fences and the barn. She worked mostly alone, a solitary figure in overalls and hip boots turned down to the ankles with only an old hound dog and a yoke of oxen for company. Every few days, Nana would send me to her house with a fresh apple pie or a plate of biscuits and May Elizabeth would nod and thank me but she never stopped whatever work she was doing.

“She needs to be done by Labor Day,” Sparrow said, “Afore the winter gits here and the weather turns.”

“Ayuh,” my grandmother agreed, “If anybody can do it, May Elizabeth can.”

And she did. It took working from dawn to dusk, 7 days a week, through the rain and fog as well as the fine days. The village marveled at her energy and persistence and sheer stubborn spirit. Help was offered but she most always turned it down – she wanted to heal in her own way and her own time.

“Grief,” Sparrow said once, “is a private place. Ain’t no way out ‘cept straight through. And there be times when you got to go alone.”

So when there was a knock on the back door the day before we were to leave for home, nobody was more surprised then we were to see May Elizabeth. She looked tired and there was more gray in her hair than I remembered – also there were flecks of paint here and there in her hair and on her flannel shirt and overalls – but she stood tall and straight and even managed a hesitant half-smile.

“I’m beholden to you, Missus,” she told my grandmother, “You and the little ones been right kind to me these past weeks and it ain’t like I ain’t noticed. I been thinkin’ I might oughta come round and thank you ‘fore you head out. Mebbe see if you needed any help packin’ up or what not.”

It took a lot to render my grandmother speechless and to her credit, she recovered quickly, assuring May Elizabeth that though she appreciated the offer, we were fine and not in need of anything and she declared, where were her manners, would she come in for coffee and a sweet roll. May shook her head immediately, mumbled something about having to finish whitewashing the fence, and then produced a bakery box tied with twine, placed it in the woodbox and before Nana could even open the screen door, was half way down the front path and out of sight.

Opening the bakery box, my grandmother could only laugh. May Elizabeth had packed us a bag of dulse, two Jersey Milk bars, a tin of aspirin, a box of crayons and several coloring books, a book of crossword puzzles, a glass canning jar crammed with beach glass and assorted shells, a pair of dice in a tiny velvet drawstring bag and a slightly ragged stuffed bear wearing a t shirt with “I Love Digby” written on it. Resting on top of this odd collection of gifts was a clearly well worn record album – “Diane Oxner Sings the Helen Creighton Traditional Songs of Nova Scotia”.

Here’s the chorus to one I still remember, “The Honest Working Man”.

Do you want to buy the mitt, the sock, the ganzy frock,
The juniper post, the mussel or the clam,
The blueberry, the foxberry, the huckleberry, the cranberry,
The smelt, the pelt, the forty-foot ladder.
The thousand of brick or the sand.

Some of the best gifts are tied with ribbons of memory.

Strange Times

It’s something of a jolt to realize that self-isolating isn’t all that much different from my usual life. I see Michael every day, get to the grocery and the drugstore once a week, and make semi-regular post office and bank runs but apart from that, unless I’m photographing a music performance or an animal event, I don’t have much interaction with my fellow human beings. I’ve come to think of it as blessing in disguise.

You’d hardly know anything was amiss until you start registering the closed signs and empty parking lots, the deserted streets and abandoned playgrounds. The city is suddenly quieter, barren almost like some film noir street scene. With the bars and restaurants and casinos shut down, downtown is desolate after five o’clock and even the riverfront is eerily still and silent.

A handful of coffee shops and delicatessens are still offering curbside takeout but more give up every day. The brewery where I spend do much time photographing musicians closes along with the few museums and art galleries we have, art and music festivals that have survived for years are canceled, the grocery stores cut their hours and begin rationing, some of the banks go to half days. All public schools are closed and there’re rumors they may not re-open at all this year. Any gathering of 50 or more people is prohibited and there’s beginning to be talk of curfews and martial law. We seems to be caught between a war zone and a plague novel. I spend my time telling myself not to panic but not too far below the surface is the fear that life as we’ve always known it, will never be the same. Everything we have taken for granted for all of our lives suddenly feels fragile and at risk. I’m feeling desperate for someone to blame.

At just past 7 in the morning, the grocery store is unusually crowded and for the first time I have a sense - just a hint, but enough to make me notice – of desperation and disaster. The familiar faces I see every week are strained and the smiles I’ve come to expect are forced. The shoppers, most in masks and protective clothing, dodge and weave through the aisles, snatching at the shelves and avoiding each other as best they can. The paper goods aisle is completely gutted – not a roll of tissue paper or paper towels or even a box of kleenex to be had. Each cash register features a prominent list of those items that are purchase-limited. Clearly stressed out managers are manning the check out lines and doing their best to soothe irate customers. This is a high end grocery store and heated arguments over who saw it first are pretty much foreign. It feels like dread.

I add low dose aspirin, Metamucil, and Ghirardelli caramel squares to my cart of cat and dogfood and litter and decide I can make do without anything I’ve forgotten. A line from Prairie Home Companion runs through my mind – “Fred’s Pretty Good Grocery, If we don’t have it, you can probably live without it.” Later I will make a 2^nd run for diet coke and cigarettes but for now I find I just want to be home with my animals and away from the craziness we have brought into our lives.

Staying in Your Lane

The town I grew up in was divided roughly into three sections – The Heights, where the money and privilege and bound-to-be-successful lived, The East, mostly single family homes, mostly middle to lower class, and The East End, a down at the heels section on the Cambridge line where the homes were mostly triple deckers and very close to poor. Not everyone spoke English in The East End, the families were almost always renters rather than home owners, and the whole shabby neighborhood was dark and smoky and smelled of cooking grease. Those from The East might hurriedly pass through it on their way to the better sections of Cambridge. Those from The Heights barely acknowledged its existence.

Much to the dismay of my mother, I had a half dozen friends who lived in The East End (we all went to The East Junior High) and only one who lived in the Heights, and went to The West Junior High. We would all be thrown unceremoniously together for high school but 7^th and 8^th grade were (and still are) two very different schools, two different neighborhoods, and two very distinct classes of society. My mother, an only child of relatively well off parents and fond of telling anyone who would listen that she had married beneath her, did her best to keep me from my lesser friends. We clashed often and sometimes violently and my daddy often had to step in to restore some sort of order. He hadn’t much enthusiasm for it.

June was my closet East End friend. She was tall and lean and long legged, the captain of the girls basketball team and the closest thing to a star athlete that we had. She and I had been friends since elementary school when status and zip codes didn’t matter so much. She came from a raucous and sprawling Italian family with four older brothers and a grandmother who spoke only her native language and her third floor home was always crowded and noisy with friends and family and music and an assortment of dogs and cats.

By comparison, my friend Dawn lived in a two story brick house just off Pleasant Street with a circular driveway, manicured lawn, three car garage and a sour-faced housekeeper. Nobody ever played the grand piano in the formal living room and the entire house had a sterile feel to it, even Dawn’s room was pastel’d and antiqued and un-lived in. Her collection of stuffed animals was arranged in a neat row on a shelf above her four poster bed but it was clear they were never loved or played with. Things in Dawn’s house were for show, not for handling and but for the fact that her family and mine went to the same Baptist church, we’d never have been friends to begin with.

High school brought very few changes – the natural order of things continued. Dawn and her crowd were cheerleaders and debate club members, honor students and class presidents, homecoming royalty and prom stars. June and her friends were athletes, got good but unnoticed grades and sang in the chorus. Dawn and her crowd drove shiny new convertible cars and June and her friends took the bus. The haves and the have nots kept to their own lanes and no one questioned the way things worked. And then, one unsuspecting spring, there was a fire at the high school and half the buildings went up in flames. It meant split sessions for the remainder of the school year – half of us left for school in the dark, half of us came home in the dark. None of us were happy and we never saw that it might’ve been an opportunity to build a bridge rather than another wall.

There are times when I think how little has changed.

The Devil's Work

I can feel myself slipping into the black mood. It’s like a veil wrapping ‘round me, tangled and thick and very troublesome. We are starting a fourth day of rain and cold, raw temperatures. I’m cabin fevered weary of gray skies and gutters filled with dirty water. And stupidity. Especially stupidity.

It starts with the letter carrier leaving a bundle of mail and a package of photographs tossed indifferently onto the cement of the front porch during a rainstorm. It’s not the first time the lazy, inept and dull witted cow has done this but it’s the first time there were professional photographs in the mix. Through a supervisor, she denies it and I flat out call her a liar and come perilously close to losing my temper. I have a strong sense that this is not the first time someone has complained about her and her supervisor assures me she’ll have a serious sit down with her as soon as she reports to work. Oddly enough, I don’t hear anything further and for some mysterious reason, we receive no mail delivery. When I called to report her, there was a “greater than one hour “ wait time. It told me all I needed to know about the state of the US mail service.

The second war is with the scandal ridden water department. The water pressure crashes unexpectedly and it takes over two hours to reach them. They tell me that they’re unable to reach the service department and give me the number to call directly to see is there’s a water main break in the neighborhood. Another hour and a half of trying to reach the service people and I call the mayor’s office. There, I’m referred back to the water department who – only after I press and press hard – own up to the fact that we’ve been disconnected for non-payment. I suggest that they might’ve shared this information with me when I first called and I can practically hear them shrugging. They’re open until 5:30. so they tell me grudgingly, but when I get there at 5 minutes after 4, they’re closed. Liars and thieves, the whole lot of them, I tell the deputies who refuse to let me in. They’re sympathetic but unmoved.

The next morning I leave early and take care of the water bill. That afternoon we have a new mail carrier who has no trouble locating and using the mail slot. I doubt we’ve turned a corner but it’s possible we’re at least on the right street. I was on my way up and out of the darkness when Michael pointed out to me that the trash hadn’t been picked up the day before. I suggested he likely hadn’t put it to the curb in time but that only fanned the flames so I shrugged and said I’d call. In the next couple of minutes, rather than just apologize and say they’d come get it as they always have in the past, the sanitation department upped their game and I found myself in a heated argument about whether we were a business or a residence. I learned all about their “commercial customer list”, about how the trucks wouldn’t pick up if they thought we were a business, and about how the poor, undeserving civil servants at City Hall were abused. She wanted to know if we had a sign on the property and then said that we certainly had a large parking lot for a residence. She had called us up on Google she informed me with more than a hint of self-righteousness and a definite “see what I can do” tone.

“There’s no damn sign on the property,” I snapped, “and the parking lot isn’t even our’s!, it belongs to the medical building next door! Why are you making this a federal case? All I need is for the damn trash to be picked up!”

This earned me a second lecture on sanitation department policies and procedures. It was futile to point out that we’d been at our current address for several years now and it being a residence or business had never mattered before. Bureaucracy, as a friend of mine recently remarked, is the Devil’s work.

Pride and Paint

How hard could it be to make a text-only meme, I said to myself when Michael handed me a sticky not with some writing on it. Just make a post with a colored background – people I absolutely know aren’t as smart as I am are doing them, I said to myself. And that, dear friends, is pride.

It goes before a fall every time.

Some five hours later as I finally give up in complete and utter disgust and have to once again call on my tech-savy friend, Charli, for rescue, I am close to homicidal. It takes her less than 5 minutes to come up with exactly what I’m needing. She sends it to me and I send it on to Michael. Given the choice of being grateful or complaining that he doesn’t like the colors, he opts for the latter. Charli sends me a scathing text about beggars being choosers and I regretfully tell her she’s absolutely right. The man is a text book case of expecting to be catered to. I send him a second meme and he likes it. I am still bitter and angry about my own lack of tech-saviness and although it’s against my better judgment, I go back to the fool paint program Charli has sent me to and try again. She has also reminded me that I am not a graphic artist and advised me against beating myself up about it. It’s kind of her but it doesn’t do much good.

After another nearly two hours of teeth gnashing and turning the air around me blue with cursing, I manage to actually come up with something. I save the image as instructed and look in downloads as instructed but while the file is there, the image isn’t. I start over another dozen times and finally realize that it’s a bad file format – I’ve been saving to PNG when I should’ve been saving to JPEG. I have no idea what this actually means but I do recognize it as the problem. Astonishingly, I try one final time and lo and behold, it works. I am dumbstruck, exhausted, and three quarters blind. And yet, there is a feeling of triumph that I can’t quite get past.

Take that you son-of-a-bitchin’ technology.

The Adventures of Crystal

My friend Michael has been out of town for three days. In that small amount of time, I have retrieved or confiscated the following from the new dog, a young and wildly puppy-ish pit bull mix named Crystal.

3 throw pillows

1 copy paperback edition of “So You Want To Be A Model”

2 sheets postage stamps

1 luggage tag

1 box Papermate black fine point ballpoint pens

1 tube Elmer’s Glue

1 hair brush

1 container non-dairy creamer

1 sofa cushion

4 rolls toilet paper

1 tube Rembrant whitening toothpaste

1 Shell credit card

1 pair Geoffrey Beene mens briefs

1 spatula

1 package of light bulbs

1 bag peppermint candies

I pair Armani mens black dress shoes

2 and ½ pair Calvin Klein socks

3/4 box manilla file folders

1 cell phone charger cord

1 pack cinnamon Altoids

1 retractable dog leash

1 portable flashlight

1 bag peanut butter cups

1 whisk broom

1 package of shoelaces

1 fringed lamp shade

1 plastic Sweet Tea bottle

3 ketchup packets

1 box of Sweet & Low

1 package of coffee filters

2 dishtowels

1 scrubber kitchen sponge

2 pairs of flip flops

1 artificial ivy plant

1 wicker waste basket

1 3 ring binder

1 tube of vita lip mint oil

We have been Crystal-Lized.

Another Mouth to Feed

“You're not going to like this.....” my friend Michael began as he pulled on his coat and gloves and fumbled with his keys, “But I just can't let her be sent to the pound.”

“Who?” I asked but knew that it didn't matter. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me our already overrun household was about to be added to once again. A friend had picked up a dog running the streets - a young, three quarters starved and friendly female pit bull - animal control had been called and Michael unraveled at the thought of her being sent to them.

Futile as I knew it would be, I pointed out the obvious. He already had four, aggressive and unhousebroken dogs. The entire house looked like a landfill and reeked like an outhouse. He couldn't afford the care and feeding as it was, to add a 5^th dog was lunacy. She was bound to be in heat and full of worms. The love of dogs and his tenderheartedness notwithstanding, he was certifiable if he took her in. He was inviting mayhem. His dogs would kill her or she would kill one of them. I went on and on like a broken record but from the start I knew I'd lost.

“Take a leash and a collar,” I finally told him, “And a blanket or a couple of towels.”

“It's temporary,” he assured me, “Just until I can figure out what to do with her.”

Famous last words, I thought dismally.

A week in and it's even worse than I feared. She is, no doubt about it, sweet natured and amiable. She gets along with the other dogs reasonably well and I'm happy to have been wrong about that, at least so far. She's not a wild, frantic barker, which is a relief because one more would surely have pushed me over the edge. But she is a jumper-upper and hasn't a single clue about being house trained. How one medium sized dog can produce that many piles of dogshit is a mystery to me.

My first time caring for her when Michael leaves town is sketchy. As best I can determine, she likes to sleep and play under and around my desk so when I walk in, the desk lamp is on the floor and all the power to all the electronics has been unplugged. Another pillow has has been raggedly unstuffed and its contents strewn about the room. Not to be outdone, the yellow cur dog has broken through the barrier to get to the stash of paper towels and toilet paper in the bathroom and someone, I suspect the little pit, has overturned not one but two trash cans and left chewed up, plastic dog food containers spread from one end of the house to the other. The old pit gives me a sorrowful look, his innocent brown eyes are very convincing and the littlest one, the long haired chihuahua who is perched imperiously on the top of the couch, yawns and gives me her best “I had nothing to do with any of this” look.

There are days when I feel exactly the same way.

Waiting on Reality

After over a month of seductively warm temperatures, the last day of the year dawns with brilliant blue skies, bright sun, and a serious nip in the air. It's not even 40 degrees when I head out to turn off the porch lights at Tricia's. She's been gone six weeks now and there are times when I think the dreadful reality of her death still hasn't hit me. I know it the way you know the abstract things in life, things that are but don't really affect you so you don't give them much thought except in principle.

There was no shock at Tricia's death. In retrospect, I'd watched her dying for the better part of six months but the part of me that knew what I was seeing and the part that refused to accept it never did come to terms. My friend, Jean, was going through the aftermath of cancer treatment at the same time and I didn't feel like I could deal with the possibility of them both succumbing so I brought milkshakes and soft biscuits and hot soups and tried to be positive. After one particularly grim visit with Tricia, I remember Michael asking me if I thought she was sick enough to die and the question cut me like a knife. Yes, I'd finally told him, I think she is. But the thought was excruciatingly painful and I refused to dwell on it. Funny how the the thought of someone you love dying can bring out the selfishness in us. I wasn't completely aware of it at the time, but I spent a lot of time denying it to spare myself the pain. In a strange and sad kind of way, I suppose it prepared me for what I knew was inevitable. I had a long time to get used to the idea of her being gone and yet I still don't know it for certain.

Christmas and the New Year come and go and then it's January 2^nd, Tricia's birthday. She would have been 73. I stand in the small space off the kitchen, empty now but not long ago converted into a kind of quasi-sick room with a couch and her recliner and a couple of end tables for her laptop and phone and cigarettes. A huge print of Andy Warhol's ketchup bottle hangs on the wall and there's a makeshift entertainment center on the opposite wall with a row of books she never got around to reading and a neat stack of DVD's she never got around to watching. I remembered that once she'd gotten settled into this small and improvised space, she hadn't had the strength or energy to do either. I also remembered that she'd hurt all the time, her ankles had swelled to the size of medium tree limbs and she was always cold despite a pile of blankets and pillows and a portable heater the girls had brought her. The most shocking thing had been the weight loss which had turned rapidly into emaciation. Everything tasted metallic, she'd told me once, or went through her like grease through a goose. She was dehydrated and so frail and bruised that she seemed transparent. The girls bought her a walker to get to and from the bathroom but sometimes she was so weak and exhausted that she couldn't manage the stairs, even with help, and would sleep in the chair. By early November, a strong wind would've carried her away and the only time she left the house was for a doctor's visit or a trip to the ER. She absolutely hated her body's betrayal, particularly as her mind was still sharp and always racing. She worried about all the thing she was leaving undone and was frustrated beyond words at being helpless and dependent on others. On the rare occasions we talked about dying, she was restless and weary and at her core, very angry, but what she never seemed to be was frightened.

Dying is not always easy or peaceful and the distraction of the unknown can only make it worse. Whether her faith saw her through or she was too ill to care, I don't know. I only know that we all wished desperately we could ease her pain. As a general rule, I despise people who tell me that death is a blessing, myself included, recovery and freedom from pain and continuing life would be the real blessing. I only concede that death may be a mercy.

I miss those usually short and sweet daily emails. It was how we kept up with each other and made sure each was above ground and breathing. We would share the insignificant details of our days from medical updates to silly dog stories to who we had run into at the grocery store to the latest neighborhood scandals. On the rare day we didn't write a line or two, I still felt secure knowing she was just walking distance away. And though I didn't stop and visit often enough, she knew a phone call would've brought me running with cigarettes or a Sonic shake or a box of chicken and biscuits from Popeye's. Looking back, I wish I'd brought her something every damn day.

Cat,Rat, Possom, Coon

Once again, something has taken up residence in the garage. The little dachshund is frantic to find it and show me but so far, his efforts have produced nothing. He eases though the dog door and almost immediately begins a Hallelujah Chorus of barking but by the time I get there with my trusty flashlight, whatever he has seen has taken refuge out of sight and out of reach. We've been here before and I don't doubt him. Some creature - rat, cat, possom, coon – has taken shelter within the ramshackle walls and I suppose it's up to me to make sure it isn't injured or sick or inviting in the entire neighborhood.

The garage is a combination hoarder's heaven and landfill. I've never gotten around to having it properly cleaned out and over the years, it's taken on a life of its own. It's crammed with old carpet and leftover paint cans, plastic bags of clothing I meant to donate, bits of fencing and moldy cardboard boxes, motheaten blankets, empty detergent bottles and assorted trash and debris from the previous owners - in other words, a perfect refuge for whatever stray creatures wander by.

After work, when the light is better, the little dachshund and I and steal stealthily into the chaos to recconnoiter and see what we can find. He is fearless, crawling and climbing through, under, over and around all obstacles into every nook and cranny and hidden place he can find. I am more cautious, exquisitely aware of the unknown and tense with anxiety that something could suddenly fly at me from the shadows. We search for the better part of 10 minutes but come up with nothing. Whatever was there that morning has, apparently, moved on, at least for now. The little dachshund is dispirited but stubborn and it takes several more minutes to convince him to give up the hunt. I am profoundly relieved not to have found a litter of kittens or some ill tempered, unpredictable wild creature with teeth and talons and after another uneventful few days, interest in the garage fades. It's re-ignited on a warm, rainy Sunday morning right after Christmas when I trudge out with a basketful of laundry and am confronted by a surprised and none too friendly, red eyed squirrel. He does not appreciate my intrusion any more than I appreciate his presence and for a few unpleasant moments we are caught in a standoff. Then the little dachshund arrives to save the day - he comes tearing in, barking furiously and ready to take on an army and the squirrel retreats quickly, ducking under the clutter and disappearing behind a row of paint cans. The little dachshund tries to follow but the mountain of debris is more than he can manage. He has to settle for the partial victory of scaring off the intruder and letting loose a stream of verbal abuse, all delivered in true hound fashion, deep and raspy and unmistakenly, unconditionally hostile. When it comes to trespassers, there can be no question of his authority or responsibility. I scoop up all 10 pounds of him, tell him what a good boy he is, and carry him back into the yard. The little Yorkie, who has watched all this from the safe neutrality of the deck - without feeling the need to get involved, I might say - erupts in a flurry of yapping and frantic congratulations and both dogs trot proudly off toward the back fence. Just to be sure that the squirrel isn't planning a comeback, I suppose, or maybe they just need to pee. At any rate, we are all safe and secure for another day.

The Man in the Gray Fedora

The man in the gray fedora climbs the steps of the bus carefully, one white knuckled hand gripping the handrail, the other holding his walking stick. He deposits a handful of coins into the machine and then navigates to a seat directly across from me, flares his ankle length yellow slicker with an enthusiastic shake and sends a spray of rainwater in every direction. Across the aisle, he meets my eyes and gives me a wicked, deliberate wink. I don't intend to smile back but it's a reflex and I've done it without thinking. He adjusts the fedora, tucks his beard inside the collar of his slicker and laughs outloud. The woman next to him lowers her eyes and slides discreetly a little away from him. I'm sure she's thinking what I am - he looks harmless enough but these are strange times and you have to be careful - Lord only knows what might be hidden beneath the drover style raincoat or behind those innocently twinkling brown eyes.

By the time we cross the line into Cambridge, the rain has turned to snow and for Christmas Eve, there's barely any traffic. It's still light when we reach Harvard Square, not exactly deserted but looking a lot like an early Sunday morning. A handful of last minute shoppers are still leaving the Coop and the pretzel man is still hawking his wares by the entrance to the subway. A snow covered quartet of street musicians is caroling “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the corner and you can hear church bells from the Harvard Yard. A lone Salvation Army Santa stands next to the newspaper stand, looking more than ready to call it a day. The banks of the river are pristine with fresh, undisturbed snow and on Cambridge Common, the nativity scene glows in a soft light. There are even live reindeer peacefully grazing and the whole scene has a postcard feel to it. It's what my daddy would call sleigh ride weather.

The bus skids and sways into its designated area and the driver expertly shifts gears and comes to a stop. The passengers are already out of their seats and in line to depart as he pulls a lever and with a gentle whoosh, the doors open.

“Watch your step, please,” he calls out as they pass, “Use the handrails and watch your step, please!”

“Merry Christmas!” some call back as they make their way out and he nods and smiles.

It's then I notice that the man in the gray fedora is not only not in line but also not in his seat nor, for that matter, anywhere on the bus. It's bewildering because we had been only a few feet apart and he couldn't possibly have gotten off without my seeing yet the fact is, he isn't here. I collect my umbrella and packages, rewind my scarf around my neck, pull my gloves back on,

and slowly leave the bus. It's almost full dark by now and still snowing and there's no sign of a man in a yellow slicker and gray fedora. I stop at the newstand long enough to buy an evening paper and a cup of hot chocolate then cross the street to the Common to catch the Pleasant Street bus which will take me very nearly to my grandmother's doorstep. According to the clock atop the subway entrance, I'm already fashionably late so I shrug off the mystery of the man in the gray fedora and concentrate on avoiding the icy patches of sidewalk in front of me.

The Common is ablaze with colored Christmas lights, strung through the fence, twined on the street lamps and hung on every tree and shrub. I can hear the chorus of “Unto Us A Child Is Born” coming from the old church and someone is kindly feeding the reindeer, someone in a yellow rain slicker and a gray fedora. Imagination, I tell myself instantly, I'll close my eyes and when I open them it'll be just some overworked and good hearted volunteer from the Humane Society. But when I open my eyes, all I see are the reindeer, milling around the nativity scene in two's and three's, pawing at the snow and looking a little like magical creatures from a Christmas story.

Maybe they were.

A Guest of the Hotel

The first time I saw him, he was half asleep in a metal chair outside the hotel, sitting quietly in the late morning sunshine, a cap pulled over his eyes and a wooden cane resting against his leg. I know a photograph when I see one but I was late and trying to manage an armful of camera, notebooks, clipboards and purse so I didn't stop. He wasn't the corporate type and likely didn't have a half pressing appointments - if I was really lucky, he'd still be there when I left - so I hurried past.

An hour or so later, as I was just sitting and waiting for the meeting to break up, I saw him again. He came through the automatic doors, moving slowly and carefully, exchanged a few words with the uniformed staff at the door, then made his way through the lobby and all the way to the restroom. Several minutes later, he was back in the lobby. He sank into a chair across from the registration counter and settled himself. He was clearly not a hotel guest, I realized, and though I suspected he might be wearing everything he owned, he was not a pan handler either. He simply say quietly in the shadows, still and silent. None of the hotel staff approached or bothered him, the guests passed him without a second glance, he might as well have been part of the décor and I couldn't stand it any longer – I shouldered my Nikon and crossed the lobby. It's not something I do all the time but sometimes the draw of a particular face is more temptation than I can stand. I rely on my instincts in these situations – whether and how to ask, whether and how to offer money – I trust my senses and try always to be respectful.

“Hello,” I said and sat down across from him, “You have such a great face. Would it be alright if I took your picture?”

He didn't speak but he did nod ever so slightly and when I smiled and said thank you, he gave me a look that was part surprised, part flattered, and part mischief. He was 73, he told me, healthy as a horse except for his macular degeneration and a touch of arthritis. Not all the hotels were as kind as this one, he confided - some took a dim view of his using their mensrooms or lobbies and would chase you away - but the Hilton folks were always kind to him. He almost smiled as he said this, as if we were sharing a secret.

“Long as you don't make any trouble,” he added in a stage whisper.

“Thank you,” I said, “You take care of yourself.”

“You do the same,” he told me and tipped his cap, "Merry Christmas."

I hope I see him again.

Gifts and Gratitude

The Christmas tree is decorated and lighted, the stockings are hung, the cat has been re-homed to a new family that will love and care for her. The girls have begun the long and excruciating process of going through their mother's things – a monumental task and one that will take months and every ounce of their combined courage and strength – and ever so slowly, I am getting used to the reality that one of my dearest friends is gone. It keeps surprising me and I retreat from the idea, a little numb from the loss and a little guilty that I didn't do more when she was here. Someone suggests that we all feel that way when it's a close and longtime friend, it's natural if not rational, but my mind isn't quite clear enough yet to comprehend it all. I used to email her every other day or so and I find myself still thinking about what I'll tell her today or tomorrow. Then I remember that she won't answer and a quick, sharp, unexpected stab of pain goes through my heart. It's reality, taking its time to be sure, but firmly reminding me who's in charge. It's futile, I know, but every instinct I have wants to challenge it and fight back.

We studied Kubler-Ross in college and the 7 Stages of Grief has always made perfect sense to me, but when you find yourself actually going through them, it's not quite as clear. It seems to be a matter of two steps forward and three steps back and at times I still find myself forgetting that certain people are dead. I hear a joke or read a book or discover a new restaurant and I think, Oh, so and so would enjoy this, I need to call him or her. Then I remember they're gone and curse reality.

The first time we met it was over dinner at a local restaurant. Tricia and my husband were working together on a project for the Chamber of Commerce and they had agreed that their respective spouses ought to meet. I didn't know what it was like for her but for me it was stunningly painful – I was a northerner from the other side of the tracks, married into money and perpetually uncomfortable in my role, shy to the point of reclusiveness. She was poised and confident and outgoing and beautiful and I clearly remember being shocked by the fact that she had kept her maiden name, common and quite unremarkable now but outrageously radical and

suspicious 45 years ago. She later told me that getting me to say more than a word or two had been like pulling teeth. Lord only knows why she decided I was worth it – I'd have written me off as a meek, little mouse in a completely inappropriate marriage and not given it a second thought but she persisted. I doubt either one of us knew we would form a bond of unshakeable friendship and love.

One of the things I have learned about life is that If it's not wrapped and ribboned, we often don't recognize the moment we are given a precious gift.