White Skies

The small brown dog tentatively put one paw on the back deck and immediately withdrew it, gingerly licking off the unfamiliar white snow and looking bewildered at the flurries falling from the white skies. It was really no more than a dusting but she had never seen snow before and she seemed to be reluctantly curious - not curious enough to actually leave the warmth of the kitchen without some coaxing - but definitly intrigued.

Once outside, she walked delicately, sniffing at the ground and often looking upward to catch a snowflake on her nose then chuff it off. She left a trail of small footsteps across the white coated grass, looking wary as the frost crunched beneath her feet and avoiding the scrubs where some powder had actually almost accumulated. The black dog had dived head first into the bushes and emerged looking a little salt and peppery, shaking off the snow and looking more than usually happy to discover this rare thrill - she pranced and ran in small mad circles, barking and pawing at the ground, as if she might find treasure beneath the frozen tundra. While the brown dog is on the timid side, the black one is Act First, Think Later and nearly everything is an adventure.

I see similarities between my dogs and people, myself included. Where some of us see snow and imagine downhill skiing, others wonder of the car will start. Where some of see us something new and interesting, others worry if the bridge will have iced over. Where some of us throw caution to the wind and run headlong into a storm, others pack emergency supplies and painstakingly prepare for every contingency.

We all cope as best we can with whatever we're up against. Some run toward and some run away, some bunker in, some embrace. It's a random and eccentric world.

The Line at Register 19

With unerring accuracy, the black dog had located a pinprick snag in the comforter. She worked this patiently and from the look of the now 5" hole, had worked all night, with a tenacity of purpose that would've made any breeder proud. She sat at the end of the bed with bits of stuffing still at the corners of her mouth and looked at me with a pleased expression. Knowing the futility of scolding her and the impracticality of strangling her, I swept up what I could and then retrieved the vacuum cleaner for the remainder. I was a quarter way through when it stopped dead and no amount of cord manipulation or rest or clearing the container would revive it.

And so it was that I came to find myself at the dreaded Walmart on a chilly Sunday afternoon, bad tempered to begin with and and disgusted that the $34.99 Dirt Devil was not in stock. I fought my way through the pet section for cat and dog food, threw in 40 pounds of kitty litter for good measure, picked out a comforter and headed for the checkout. The line at register 19 seemed the most promising - only two carts ahead of me and neither obscenely overloaded - so I joined the line and tried to make the best of the situation. It was crowded and loud, suffocatingly hot. The couple behind me were arguing over the best way to corral their ragamuffin children without losing their place, the mother ahead of me was having second thoughts about her purchases and removing items from her cart, then taking them back, all the while muttering about coupons and screeching at her own child to behave. The line didn't appear to be moving in the slightest and I coud feel sweat between my shoulders and running down my face. The loud speaker whistled shrilly and then an inarticulate and bored voice began announcing specials, lost children, and store hours. I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on and began to wonder what in heavens name had made me think this was a workable idea when a runaway shopping cart blindsided me, overturned my own cart and sent a dozen cans of Special Kitty and Mighty Dog clattering to the floor. A sullen and angry young man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the child who had propelled the cart by his overall straps and delivered several good smacks to his denim covered bottom. The child immediately began flailing in mid air and screaming for his mother in a voice that could've shattered glass. The young man said something to my general direction that might've been "Sorry" and walked off, swinging the child at his side like a sack of potatoes and cursing. An older and weary looking man from the next checkout line righted my cart and helped me gather up the cans of petfood - we silently agreed to let the bag of litter (torn open and generously spilled) lie. And still the line seemed stagnant and unmoving.

About the time I was considering the possibility that if hell was the fire and brimstone that we were all taught, then register 19 was the waiting area, a woman waving her freshly painted nails in the air pushed by me in pursuit of another child run wild. Come back here! she yelled, Come back here, you ...you....you miserable little .....URCHIN!
The little boy easily out manuvered her and to a round of applause, ducked adeptly into the nail salon and took shelter behind a display of glitzy nail polish. While this small drama played out, the cart ahead of me suddenly surged forward and to my surprise, I found myself at the actual edge of the checkout counter. A tiny spark of hope flared but was almost immediately extinguished as I watched the cashier pick up each item, examine it carefully with both hands and a curious expression, then ever so deliberately and slowly scan it before placing it in a plastic bag, moving with the dazed speed of molasses flowing uphill. Good God, the husband behind me demanded of no one in particular, Where do they find these people? Hey, you! ( this directed at the slow motion cashier), While I'm still young! This had no effect on the cashier who I now suspected might be a mole for Target, put in place to sabotage helpless Walmart shoppers and drive them to the very brink of retail rage.

Finally, I escaped to the parking lot, cooler air, and relative quiet. A measure of sanity returned as I steered my cart toward my car and gave thanks for surviving intact, for aspirin, and for being childless.

Sleeping Dogs

"Let sleeping dogs lie," my daddy warned me as I headed for the stairs to wake my mother. "Or", my grandmother added curtly, "They'll bite you in the ass."
"She isn't feeling well," my daddy said with a sharp glare in my grandmother's direction, "Best not to wake her quite yet." Nana cleared her throat - only she could do it so meaningfully - but said nothing.
"She promised to take me to see Aunt Jenny's kittens!" I protested with all the indignity I could muster. My daddy and grandmother exchanged glances.
"Tomorrow," Nana said quietly, "I'll take you tomorrow."

There is always a tomorrow in a home where alcohol rules, always room for a new and improved promise of sobriety and change, even when the alcoholism is never named. My grandmother and her son in law disagreed almost violently on the subject of my mother - my daddy chose to ignore it, want to fix it, overlook it, deny it or take the blame for it. My grandmother saw it as a lack of moral fiber, enhanced by her only daughter's willful selfishness and expectation of always getting her own way. Neither saw it as a disease, as something that might respond to proper treatment. Neither could comprehend it or understand that it manifested itself in behavior. They argued incessantly about to handle her, how to lay down the law and force her to come to terms. If it had been what each defined as an actual drug addiction, I suspect my mother would've been packed off to some far off rehab hospital very early on - but alcohol was and remains, a legal drug. So all my daddy and grandmother really wanted was for my mother to learn how to drink responsibly, the way they did - and when she didn't or couldn't or wouldn't, they reacted like offended parents trying to discipline an unruly child.

Nothing worked, not Nana's rage and not my daddy's helpless pleas. I learned to keep my distance from my mother, especially when she was drinking. And soon I learned to be humiliated by her, ashamed to have come from her, frightened that I would become like her. By the time I was 12 or so, I had come to hate her with a resoluteness that lasted my entire life. I didn't understand the disease but I knew the effects and the pattern. Everyone she came into contact with was harmed, damaged in some way, and she took pleasure in it, spreading the blame like butter and bitterly enjoying it. She was happiest when she was most miserable - she liked the fact that she could inflict her misery on others without consequence.

"Let sleeping dogs lie." my daddy said. Pretend it isn't the whiskey, blame it on anything but the beer. Don't say the word alcoholic because once you do, you can't take it back and it would do more harm than good.

"Shine a light on a problem," my grandmother reckoned, "And it's not half as scary as the dark."

Aunt Jenny's kittens would wait for another day and my mother slept on while her mother and husband bickered the afternoon away over a game of gin rummy and a family in disarray.

The Underground

The plumber arrived just before eight in the morning, an overweight, barrel chested and bearded bear of a man in overalls with his name - Ty - stitched on the pocket. He didn't walk, he lumbered, tool belt jangling with each heavy step and an early morning scowl on his face. He went directly to the overflow valve, evaluated it briefly, then gave it a good kick with the toe of his workboot. Kneeling in the soggy ground he began uncoiling a length of wire and attaching it to a an electric feeder. At one point, he paused long enough to pull on heavy gloves and turn his cap around. Sumbitch, he spat at the valve and gave it another kick.

He worked in silence for the better part of an hour, patiently feeding the wire into the drain, pulling it back, feeding it some more. It was a cold morning and although I could see his breath in the air, I could also see that he was sweating. He drank coffee from a cardboard mug and chained smoked while he worked, stopping every few feet to negotiate the wire when he hit a snag and repeat the curse like a litany, Sumbitch! His scowl never lessened but I had the feeling it was more habit than actual frustration, a dressed up and more colorful version of Take that!

When he was satisfied ( and nearly out of wire ), he stood and reversed the engine of the feeder and the miles of wire began rewinding with a raspy, coughing sound. He watched it carefully, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into his overalls pockets and glaring at it, nearly daring it to hang up on some underground obstacle.
Once everything had been replaced in the truck, I watched him take his empty coffee cup and meticulously gather each discarded cigarette butt then wash the leftover dirt and mud away until there was no sign that he had been there. He tucked his gloves into one pocket, re-adjusted his cap and took a final look around before nodding to himself and giving the valve a last, superficial kick and a farewell Sumbitch!

At the front door, he wordlessly handed me a bill and tipped his cap. When I asked what the trouble had been, he seemed to give his answer - and me - considerable thought, as if he was deciding how much information I was actually capable of ingesting and understanding. At long last, he adjusted his tool belt and zipped up his down vest and looked directly at me. Ruhts, he said shortly and turned to go. Ruhts? I repeated to his broad, retreating back. He paused and gave me a look that suggested he thought I'd reached the limit of my intellectual capacity.
Ruhts, he said again, from trees. Another pause, then Underground. Yet another pause, then Got it? Feeling like he might be right about my intellectual capacity, I nodded and watched him walk to the truck and drive off.

We got ruhts, I told the small brown dog, Sumbitch.

The Currency of Goodwill

The banker lived across the cove in a bright yellow house with a wide veranda and a gently rolling slope of a front lawn. We would often catch a glimpse of him on the glassed in front porch, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, still wearing a jacket and tie and looking out of place. A well maintained car sat in the neatly graveled driveway and the grass was unfailingly trimmed and green. Every couple of summers, a crew of island men came and repainted the entire house, always the same sunny yellow with white trim. This was the money man, the man who decided whether your farm loan was extended or your boat refitted or your new tractor financed. He lived slightly apart from the community, avoiding becoming overly friendly for fear it would compromise his judgement or make him enemies. The men tipped their caps when they passed him, the women smiled and the children were taught to be extra respectful around him.

He arrived at the bank each weekday morning precisely at 9 o'clock, parked his car in the square and unlocked the double doors with a ring of keys he carried in his vest pocket. He and the two Swift girls, Amy and Margaret, were the bank's only employees and they took their responsibilities seriously. Each of the girls went home for dinner at exactly noon and returned exactly at one just in time for his wife to arrive with a picnic basket - a hot dish and a thermos of black coffee, fresh bread and homemade pie. Routine and order mattered to the banker and each evening he left at 4 on the dot, double checking each window and securely locking the front doors before driving the short distance home. He and his wife were also apart in that they were childless and their evenings were spent with books and backgammon and a glass or two of red wine, served in delicate long stemmed glasses with cheese and fruit. They were an educated and upper class couple, liked and respected but not completely fitting in with the small village, a little too "city-fied" for most folks, a little too elite. Folks don't much like one person knowing all their business, Nana remarked, 'specially when it's about their money.

And the banker did know their business down to the last dime, every signed note, every loan schedule, every bit of collateral. He knew when someone was about to hit hard times and when things were looking up. He knew the cost of lumber and netting, a rebuilt boat engine and a single lobster trap, he knew when women were preparing to leave their men long before the men caught on. He knew the price of every schoolbook and hymnal, what gas and a cord of firewood were going for, how much was owed on every last house and piece of farm equipment. He knew rents and the cost of mainland whiskey, when passage crossing fares were about to be increased, the last penny of every tax and not only when it was due but the odds of it being paid. He watched over prosperity with a smile and hardship with kindness and during the aftermath of the hurricane, the lights in the bank burned well into the night as he sat with the families who had lost their livelihoods and worked out terms for new loans, improvising solutions and ideas and long term plans. It was then that the island folk realized how deeply he cared and the walls of distrust and suspicion began to come down piece by broken piece. The banker gave up his suit and tie for jeans and cardigan sweaters, swapped his wine glass for a cold can of beer on McIntyre's steps and his wife was invited to the covered dish suppers at the church. The banker still knew every last detail of every life but now he was trusted with the knowledge. Don't life work in funny ways, Nana said as she beat an old carpet on the back clothesline, It took a hurricane and the better part of his life to prove himself. Takes some folks three or four times that long.

The Skitters

Funny how a little darkness can bring on the skitters.

In daylight, the scratching noise from the back corner of the garage might've made me curious enough to investigate. A mouse perhaps, or one of the neighborhood cats, possibly even a raccoon. In the dark, however, I whirl around on a dime and jump back, expecting the worst although I have no clear idea what the worst might be. Nothing is out of place and there is no sign of movement but I know there is something there, unseen, in hiding, maybe watching and lying in wait. Don't be an idiot, I say outloud but I don't like the shaky sound of my voice or the way my breathing has suddenly turned ragged. I close the dryer door, set the timer, and hurry out.

In the warmth and light of the kitchen, the moment of panic seems like hysterical nonsense born of an overactive imagination and the Stephen King novel I'm reading. I shake it off, remind myself that I'm grown woman and more than a match for a mouse, a cat, or even a raccoon. Besides, and this is in my daddy's voice, whatever it was is way more scared of you than you are of it. A half hour later when I go back to the garage, I try to keep this in mind but at the last minute I decide it wouldn't hurt to take the old yellow broom. Just a precaution, I tell myself and am only slightly ashamed of my own foolishness. An image of sweeping a mouse senseless strikes me as the height of improbability but it's pitch dark outside and the garage is nothing but a jumble of trash and debris and there's no end of unseeable places to hide.

There's no sound except the whir of the dryer but just as a precaution, I scan the garage slowly - paint cans, old furniture, a stray lampshade, a dozen or so empty detergent bottles I'd never gotten around to throwing away, trash bags stuffed with clothing I'd always meant to take to Goodwill, cat carriers haphazardly stacked in a corner,
a leaf blower, an extension ladder - years of stuff I hadn't had time to deal with thrown carelessly into piles to mold and rot, all lit by a bare 25 watt bulb high on the ceiling. Each time I'd been determined to tackle it, I'd been too discouraged to start. I reached for the dryer door and as I pulled the clothes out, something stirred in a back corner, something small and skittery, making a grating noise, like nails (or maybe talons) might make if they clawed on cement. I spun around, brandishing the broom high and shrieking for fear that I would see a pair of malevolent yellow eyes glaring from the shadows.

There was, of course, nothing to be seen - no wild eyed, rabid raccoon ready to pounce, no feral cat with bloody claws, not even the whisker of a mouse. Grown women with brooms are not afraid of the dark, I remind myself sternly, but I don't return to the clothes immediately, choosing instead to try and get my breathing under control and curse defiantly. Get out of my garage! I yell into the darkness but nothing moves or makes a sound, no trapped, injured bird, no stalking serial killer, no small animal, no walking dead. There is just darkness and the whistle of nightwind. I am in my garage on a chilly January night and yes, the light is pitiful and yes, it's far too quiet, and yes, the shadows seem to have a life of their own but it's still just a garage, not a chamber of potential horrors. My daddy's voice speaks again, There is nothing here that can harm you except your own fear, I hear him say, This is just laundry. I become aware of an ache in my fingers and realize that I have a death grip on the broom. I force my hand to relax - just a little - and turn back to the clothes spilling out of the dryer. The smell of clean sheets is reassuring and the towels are still warm but I don't like having my back to the windowless garage wall, don't like the feeling that I'm being watched from behind a mountain of junk, even if it is no more than a scared mouse and not a fast moving, red eyed creature with a taste for blood and gore. Or, my common sense tells me, a tree branch scraping againt the roof. I jam the clothes into the laundry basket and still clutching the broom, back carefully out, not bothering to shut the double doors (and trap some unspeakable something?) against the cold.

Outside there are stars and a quarter moon and peace of mind. The garage is just a garage again, barely visible from the kitchen window once the backporch light is off, a plain enough old structure with it's doors hanging loosely on the hinges and it's formidable contents just so much neglected trash that I can't find time to throw away. Even in the dark, the only monsters are the ones I conjure in my mind.

Lindsey's Camellia

Each Saturday he hobbles into the shop in tiny, shuffling and very rapid munchkin steps, stabilized by his cane but still terrifying me that he will fall forward due to his own momentum. He wears a glossy red baseball jacket and a visor cap, khakis and corduroy house slippers, and this day he carries a brilliant red flower in his free hand. He crosses the length of the restaurant all the way to the shop, hunched forward like an involuntarily bent over hundred year old downhill racer, concentrating hard on each movement and focused on his destination. His face is patchy with age, discolored in places with liver spots and scars, and his hands tremble but his eyes are bright and his smile shows every tooth in place. Like a ruined old knight bearing a gift for a lady, he approaches Lindsey and almost shyly offers her the flower. She accepts it gracefully and favors him with a dimpled smile and for a moment there is a hint of the young man he must have been. She pours him a glass of sauvignon blanc and they fall easily into conversation about his garden and love of flowers while she gently puts the flower into a wine glass and fills it halfway with water. It's a camellia, he tells her proudly and his eyes sparkle.

He doesn't stay long - I get the feeling that a driver is waiting outside - but before he leaves he engages each of us in conversation, telling me that he knew my husband's family well and mentioning other names I used to know. His body is breaking down but his mind is sharp and as he leaves several people waylay him to say hello. He stops and speaks to every one of them, calling them by name and asking after their families, then raises one hand in a farewell wave and shuffles through the front doors. I realize that I'm halfway expecting applause.

The red camellia may not last but it was no small gift.

Finding Your Voice

It began with a barely audible whine and grew into an anxious whimper. Then a full grown bark and suddenly a whole range of sounds accompanied by a mad dance. The small brown dog had found her voice. Gone her shyness and timidity, gone her sweet and affectionate chin nudges - she burst forth into impatient song, demanding to go outside without an umbrella, into the cold rain, brave and grown up. I felt a tug of nostalgia for a time when she would've burrowed back into my arms and buried her face in my neck, apprehensive about the dismal weather and frightened by the sounds of thunder. Now she trots outside, proudly keeping pace with the black dog and refusing to come when she's called.

I suppose it was inevitable, this growing up and away, this need to demonstrate her independence and break free. And perhaps I should feel proud that I've raised her to be so close to fearless of the outside world. I watch her scamper in and out of the shrubs, charge the fence at the sound of another dog, wade into the thick weeds and emerge dragging a fallen tree limb twice her size. A squirrel darts across the back fence and she explodes into motion and noise. She is drenched by the rain, shivering and miserable, but unwilling to concede and it is several more minutes before she finally comes to the back door, freezing and soaked to the skin. I gather her up in a towel and dry her off, turn on her heating pad and cover her with a blanket. She looks pitiful and happy all at the same time. The black dog, her fur so thick that the rain barely penetrated it, gives a vigorous shake then curls up beside us, laying her head on the edge of the dog bed and falling asleep almost at once. The outside world had been conquered and put in its place despite the pouring rain and both dogs are well pleased with themselves.

The rain continued all day and all through the night and the next morning the entire little scene was replayed. The cats watched in disbelief, mystified by the concept that any self respecting animal would willingly leave a warm bed and a full food bowl. Even Patch, who was converted to an inside cat upon her arrival several years ago, displayed no interest in the world outside the back door. All things change with time and experience and we each find our own voice at our own pace. Some harmonize, some solo, some sing off key but we're all in the choir.

Hot Tamales

She showed up once a month or so, arriving in a battle scarred, rattletrap pickup truck almost as old as she was. She was a crone in faded overalls and laceless, toeless Keds, a bent and brittle straw hat perched on her head and an ancient, hot-spotted chihuahua tucked under her arm. She limped her way to the counter and gave us a wicked, almost lascivious grin that displayed her missing and niccotine stained teeth and when she spoke it was in a whispery, suggestive cackle. Tamales? she asked, cocking her head and narrowing her mucous filled, opaque eyes at us, Fresh tamales today? One of us usually nodded and she would limp her way back to the truck and return with an armload of hot tamales, wrapped in aged newspaper. Five for five dollars, she croaked and laid them on the counter while the chihuahua growled and bared his neglected, diseased teeth at us. She snatched the bills and crumpled them in one crooked, crippled hand then jammed them into a torn denim pocket and shuffled toward the door. The chihuahua gave a nasty, farewell bark as she climbed back into the pickup and then she was gone in a roar of exhausted muffler and a cloud of blue-black smoke. We never knew her name or where she came from and we never, ever allowed ourselves to think of what might be involved in the actual tamale making process.

Sister Mary Evelyn also stopped in once a month, a stocky, little nun in full habit, selling homemade baked goods for the benefit of an abused women's shelter. Brownies, pecan pies, breads and cakes and every flavor of cookie, meticulously prepared by the sisters and carefully wrapped for sale were transported in boxes in the back of an old station wagon. Sister knew an easy mark when she met one and accepted our money with a hushed thank you and a quiet blessing before gliding out to the old car to make her next stop. She was clearly a gentle soul but her eyes were sharp when engaged on her rounds and she discreetly counted every bill before giving us her thanks. That someone might actually try to shortchange a nun was an unsettling thought and we often gave her more than what she asked. Being in the good graces of a bride of Christ could certainly do no harm, we thought, and her's was a just, christian and very underfunded cause.

Peddlers, with their games and coloring books and stuffed animals, were thrown out with contempt and threats of the police. They were greedy and sleazy and their products were cheap and trashy. They smiled like carnival carnies and looked like shabby out of work car salesmen, they were brazen, loud and overly good natured, like Bible salesmen from the 30's. We showed them the door and were not kind about it. Sister Mary Evelyn probably would have disapproved of our treatment of them but the old tamales crone might have just as quickly put a curse on them. What would happen, we sometimes wondered, if all of them should arrive at the same time.

Nuns, crones and peddlers - sometimes life is like the lyrics of a bad country song.

Taking Care of Your Toys

Take care of your toys, my mother told me, or I'll take them away.

Be it love or friendship or a small business, things that you neglect, abuse, or take for granted tend to dry up and disappear. And so it is with the small business I once worked for - left in the hands of a fool who bled it dry, he profited without effort while others worked their hearts out, took credit for their ideas and accomplishments, was willfully blind to the warning signs of trouble and cavalierly ignored the needs of anyone but himself. Even now, he seeks out the center stage of failure for no other reason than it is center stage, one more opportunity to strut and preen in the spotlight. He isn't even aware of passing over those who contributed to the business - it doesn't occur to him to mention anyone else's name since they are not the people he sees in the mirror and therefore of no consequence. It's not intentional - it's just that he's not very bright. His are sins of vanity, arrogance, laziness, a blind, grasping self centeredness and a stunning, hopeless stupidity. Unlike most business people who would be distressed by personal failure, he sees this as a photo op.

Soon it will be all gone, the Chamber of Commerce breakfasts, the Business After Hours get togethers, the Downtown Development meetings, all the places where his position afforded him admittance. There'll be no more newspaper interviews or tv spots, no more press coverage. The things that matter will be taken away like uncared for toys and only bartenders will still know his name and his drink. He will become publicly what he has been privately all along - common, inept, laughable, artificial and of no use - because beneath the surface there is only empty space and dead air, carefully contained by walls of narcissism.

At one time or another, we all fall short of a challenge or an opportunity. We have moments, even phases, where we retreat and don't give our best. We learn and grow from such experiences.

At one time or another, we all put ourselves first and mistreat the people we care for. We make amends.

At one time or another, we are all flighty and distracted, not seeing the forest for the trees and rejecting the advice and wisdom we're offered. This teaches us to listen and pay attention.

At one time or another, we all think we know better, are better, are entitled to better. Humility usually follows.

At one time or another, we are all caught in the net of materialism. We usually outgrow it.

At one time or another, we all shirk responsibility in favor of blame. This teaches us honesty and accountability and the value of doing our best.

Not everyone learns these lessons, preferring to be stick figures, taking up space and driven only by self serving ambition and ego. They are eventually exposed and left behind and when they fall, no one helps them up after the first time. They bring about their own downfall and are too pretentious and plastic to understand why. There are a great many things about ourselves that we can change - we can learn to be more forgiving, more thoughtful, less selfish. We can learn to consider others and do better at the things that matter. Perhaps we can even cultivate and grow emotions and conscience. But you can't fix stupid.

Arrogance rides triumphantly through the gates, barely glancing at the old woman about to cut the rope and spring the trap. Mario Cooley

A Hard Road Back to Southie

My friend Anne and I had worked together for the better part of ten years. She was tall and thin with dark curly hair, wore delicate looking glasses and had a quick, sharp tongue. She came from Southie and wore her Irish roots with pride. In her early 20's, she still lived at home, dated occasionally, and was always up for a drink after work on a Friday night. She was a believer, a practicing and serious Catholic with a light side and an often razor edged sense of humor, capable, smart, professional and highly likable. She rarely missed a day of work and was always well dressed with straight seams and a stylish but quiet Lord and Taylor look. She took things in stride and adapted gracefully to new people, new technologies, new problems. She liked her life and had a bright future and was the last candidate we could imagine for a nervous breakdown.

She was gone for nearly three months, tucked away in a pricey hospital upstate and we heard not a word. Managers and supervisors weren't talking but rumors flew - a suicide attempt, depression, paranoia, schizophrenia, even a random shooting spree - impossible things that were suddenly being taken quite seriously. The truth was that one clear and cold New Year's Day, Anne had unexpectedly melted down and gone away - no triggering event, no trauma, no shock - she simply stopped being in the world and retreated to a place of madness, verging on the catatonic, and her family sent her away to a place of green fields and support groups, therapy and drugs and doctors specializing in mental illness. She was treated, catered to, medicated, and forced into a recovery she didn't want and when she was deemed cured, she was released and sent back, as if nothing at all had happened.

She came back to Southie, back to her family and back to work, picking up where she had left off almost as if it had been a long holiday weekend, but the old Anne was gone and the new one was nearly a stranger - thin to the point of emaciation, brittle and fragile looking, old. There was no spark, no smile, no humor, just a shell of the woman we had once known, a shadow of what she had once been. Treat her normally, the bosses instructed, She's fine. But she wasn't fine, she was turned inward and shaky, hesitant and unsure, self conscious and reclusive. She didn't join in conversations, didn't shop on her lunch hour. She was forgetful and blank, frequently stopping in mid task to find her place, avoiding eye contact and keeping to herself. There were no more cheerful good mornings or weary good nights, no under her breath jokes or mild curses. She was easily overwhelmed by a workload she had been able to manage blindfolded. Her shoes were scuffed and her purse rattled with pill bottles and she wept when she misplaced her glasses. Her once familiar world had become foreign and troubled territory and she navigated it in a fog, alone, confused and unsure of her next step.

Things became easier over time. Her memory improved and her anonymous fears were mostly overcome. She took notice of a stained blouse or a run in her stockings, she began to focus and walk a little straighter, paid more attention to her hair and makeup, tried to re-inject a smile into her telephone conversations, but she was never the same old Anne and we all missed her.

I haven't thought of her in years and have no idea what became of her although I hope for the best. She taught me a simple lesson - that whether in mind or body, we are all breakable creatures on an uncertain path and that if we lose our way, it's a hard road back to Southie.

Summer Stock

Pity, my grandmother remarked, without dropping a stitch, that you can't shut up your relations in a closet, like preserves. Her knitting needles clacked steadily and she occasionally adjusted the afghan with a sharp flip of her elbow. Aunt Vi and Aunt Pearl nodded in agreement, Ayha, they both said at once with small, discreet smiles. Nana was in what my daddy used to call a "snit" and the sisters knew better than to contradict her. My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face tight with anger. And what exactly is that supposed to mean, she demanded. It means, my grandmother said calmly, precisely what I said. My mother stalked back into the kitchen and with a clatter began washing the breakfast dishes. Nana glared at her knitting and sighed. Among other things, she said clearly, preserves don't eavesdrop. There was a curse from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the old cast iron skillet being flung against the wall, and then the slam of the back door. From the sunporch I could hear the dogs barking at the sound of an engine and the spray of gravel as my mother drove off and up the driveway. She surely does favor a dramatic exit, I heard Aunt Pearl say quietly and my grandmother and Aunt Vi agreed in unison, Ayha.

This little drama, or some re-mastered version of it, played itself out repeatedly among the women on my mother's side of the family. Casting continually changed - sometimes you were an extra or had a small cameo part, other times you were the lead but the dialogue was constant and reliable - recriminations, accusations, cheap shots and blame until finally one of the players left the stage. Relationships built on alcoholism and conflict are painfully predictable and as I got older I began to wonder if it was generational - had my grandmother and her mother been at each other's throats as she and my mother were, as my mother and I were? Was there some competitive and twisted strand of DNA that was present and actively at work? There was no one left to ask.

All storms, even those made up of hurricane force winds, blow over eventually, and that night my mother returned by the time supper was on the table. She was disheveled and tipsy, a little unsteady on her feet, and she climbed the stairs to her room using all her tricks to be quiet. Nana pointedly ignored her, telling me, There will be great weeping but it's just for effect, and then suggested a game of dominoes. The next morning, my mother was haggard and apologetic but my grandmother wasn't buying and by lunch the cold and fragile courtesy between them was gone, both were white faced and stiff with anger. Neither would concede, compromise or yield a single inch of ground and they each made a point of avoiding the other. It seemed silly to me at the time, and I couldn't help but think of two, old and battle scarred tomcats, circling each other, spitting and hissing until they launched at each other and became a whirling, howling centrifuge of teeth and claws, refusing to let go until someone doused them with a bucket of cold water.

We are all - at least in part - the best and worst of where we come from.

Ezra and Izzy and A Tale of Spanish Rice

Ezra and Izzy had never had time to marry. They lived together for over 50 years in a small house on the square and raised goats, rabbits and four daughters. Until Izzy took ill, they had never spent a night or much of a day apart - all four girls had been conceived and born in the tiny back bedroom except for the first, who Ezra always claimed had come into being on the kitchen table after a particularly spicy meal of fried shortribs and Spanish rice sent to them by an old friend of Izzy's on the mainland. Izzy had a reputation for living on the domestic edge and was always willing to try something new and different but the story of the Spanish rice and the kitchen table was told and re-told on countless front steps and around multiple old black stoves and each time she blushed and hid her eyes.

The girls were named for the months in which they were born - April, May, January and June - each was delicate and slender, petite with dark hair and eyes and tiny feet, except for the first, who grew taller than both parents and who had a mass of caramel colored curls in contrast to her sisters' dark brunette and perfectly straight locks. Probably the Spanish rice, Ezra liked to tell folks, and Izzy would blush and hide her eyes.

Jan was different from her sisters in more ways than her hair and her height. April, May and June were homebodies with no great curiosity about the world beyond the the small island. All four girls were home schooled but resisted Izzy's carefully planned out lessons and reading lists, except for Jan who sought out anyone with books she could borrow. She read poetry, history and two versions of the Bible, all the local, discarded paperbacks the summer people brought, every classic the one room school had to offer. She read cookbooks and novels and magazines and seed catalogues and carried a pocket dictionary in her back pocket. If it was in print, she read it, learned it, retained it, despite the teasing and affectionate name calling from her un-curious sisters. Spanish rice must be brain food, Ezra told everyone and Izzy blushed and looked away.

By the time the girls reached their teens, the small house on the square was under siege from an onslaught of young island boys come to call. They eagerly helped Ezra with the chores, were always on hand for Izzy's errands, and they brought gifts - a box of maple sugar candy wrapped in brown paper with a makeshift bow, handpicked wildflowers or a piece of carved and polished driftwood, a jam jar of fragile, earth colored shells, a second hand book of old Scottish hymns. In exchange for cold milk and strawberry pie in Izzy's kitchen, they chopped firewood and repaired fences, rehung windows and fed the rabbits, learned to shear goats. Ezra watched all this with a mix of amusement and pride. Somethin' sure does draw a crowd to this kitchen, he told Izzy and his daughters all laughed except for the first born who blushed and hid her eyes.

By the time Izzy got sick, all four girls had scattered to make their own homes and their own lives although they returned often with their children and the little house was rarely empty. April met a soldier and moved to Annapolis,
May married a fisherman and moved across the passage, June found a job in the big hotel on the mainland. Only Jan stayed on the island, settling into a small house around the cove and dropping in on Ezra and Izzy daily. Goats and rabbits were replaced by grandchildren and a visiting nurse who came weekly. All was according to plan until one fine summer day when the ferry brought a strangely familiar figure - a tall, dark eyed, dark haired, slender and handsome man with a camera, a photographer who had spent time on the island when Ezra and Izzy were just starting out, a man now dying of terminal lung cancer, so it was said, a man who had come to make amends and die with a clean conscience. He sought out the small house on the square, then each of the girls in turn, except for the first born. It was said he stayed to a dinner of short ribs and Spanish rice with Ezra and Izzy and that he left behind a book of photographs but all that known for sure was that he left the following day.

On the day of the Izzy's funeral, while searching for one of her mother's treasured lace edged, lavender scented handkerchiefs - her only real extravagance - Jan came across a book of photographs concealed among a drawer of cotton nightgowns and practical underthings. There were pictures of fishing boats and rock formations, sunsets and seagulls and groups of old men in leather aprons and work gloves. There were pictures of flowers and driftwood scattered along the rocky coasts, abandoned shacks and lily ponds and families on front porches. And there were pictures of Izzy - dozens of pictures of Izzy, gathering shells in the secluded cove, wading through the creek above the cemetery, swinging on the old tire behind the schoolhouse with her petticoats showing. Izzy, with sparkling eyes and pale, unlined skin, young and laughing, without a care in the world - almost in love, Jan thought. It was a side of her mother that she had never seen but knew well from her sisters and feeling as if she'd intruded upon a hidden cache of very private memories, she decided to replace the book as she'd found it and promised herself to make no mention of it to anyone. She didn't hear her father's steps coming down the hall, didn't hear the bedroom door swing open until it was too late and she turned, picture book in hand, to see her father standing in the doorway. Come, January, he said gently, It's time. He took the book of photographs from her and placed it back in the drawer. Your sisters are waiting.

That night, as friends came to cook and tend the grandchildren, Ezra and his daughters sat on the front porch and watched the tides. April, May and June talked quietly while Jan, having no idea where to begin, leaned against her father's knees and breathed the scent of lavender. After a time, the three sisters kissed their father goodnight and went inside. Papa, she began, I need to know. Ezra sighed and dug for his pipe, took his time about lighting it and then spoke to his firstborn. There are things in this world that are better left untold, January, he said softly.



Here, my grandmother fell silent and when I opened my eyes to look at her, she had returned to her rocking and her knitting. That's it? I demanded of her, That's the end? But what happened to them? What about the photographer? She waved off my questions with a shake of her head and an enigmatic smile. Sometimes, she told me softly, we make mistakes and someone else has to make them right. Some things are better left untold.

Garden Variety Weird

Now and then someone drifts into my professional life who's flat out spooky. For no good reason, he or she makes my skin crawl and I want to avoid them as much as possible. They don't have unsettling tattoos or gold teeth, don't dress in any way out of the ordinary, don't carry a machete in their back pocket, don't look evil or even dangerous. But close contact with them sets off all my primeval instincts. They're just garden variety weird - oranges in a sea of apples - not threatening or unbalanced, just somehow wrong and not to be confused with the true community eccentrics or those temporarily on the loose due to the generosity of day passes.

The eccentrics arrive with a touch of flamboyance and flair - a tall, too thin scarecrow of a man in a black cape and velvet fedora. He carries a silver handled cane and doesn't enter as much as he sweeps in like a strong wind, commanding attention and scattering those in his way like confetti. A stick figure of an old woman wearing clashing colors and stage makeup arrives in a wheelchair - her parchment skin hangs from her bones and she has the ghastly smile of a crackly old crone. She is like a fragile, breakable bird - decrepit and nearly transparent with age but still able to snap orders with a brittle and sharp expectation of being obeyed. A mother-daughter team, arm in arm and both reeking of whiskey and old money, storm the door as if prepared to meet resistance. They share a private joke and their laughter is high pitched, verging on hysteria and hormonal imbalance. The true eccentrics are colorful and move about in worlds of their own making, dismissing conformity and accepted behavior as nuisances.

The day pass people travel with only a hint of reality for company. They tend to be shy and often hesitant, fearing eye contact and always careful to be courteous and deferential. Conversations with them require constant focus as they tend to drift and are easily distracted. In a world where noise rules, they are quiet. In a world where there is much pushing and shoving, they are trampled and not noticed. They come and go with timid apologies and no real hope of finding their place in line. They are almost always harmless, traveling on unfamiliar ground with light, quick steps - a little wary, a little uncertain of their surroundings and usually medicated to some degree - journeying on their own yellow brick road, in constant search for the wizard.

Neither the day pass people or the eccentrics unnerve me but let one of the dark, weird people appear and I feel a sudden apprehension, a shiver of something close to but not quite fear. It's an anonymous, random anxiety that I want to dismiss as ridiculous but can't. Everything about them is run of the mill normal except for the fact that it isn't, there's a suggestion of wrong here, an invisible aura of disturbed. I inexplicably find myself thinking of serial killers and old Vincent Price horror movies, troubled childhoods and schizophrenic stalkers. I watch the most recent of them enter the shop - he wears khakis and a cardigan and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. His coke bottle glasses have slipped down on his nose and he pushes them up with a deliberate gesture. When I summon a smile and ask if I can help him, he looks at me for a very long time and then when I'm just about to decide that he might be a mute, he says ever so softly, No, and I realize that he's one of them. His eyes peer at me through his glasses, his arms hang loosely at his sides and I have the eerie thought that he might be evaluating me as his next meal. Eventually his stare shifts to the wine shelves and this is worse because now I think he may be considering what wine pairs best with a medium well redhead. I am saved by a ringing telephone and leave him motionless and silent in the bustling store, an island of weird in a sea of Christmas chaos. I'm too spooked to offer to help him again and pray that he will make a selection and leave. In time, he does just that - wandering out the back door, a bottle of blood red cabernet held casually against his chest. Customers instinctively clear a path for him, moving aside on reflex. He stops in the doorway and turns to give the shop a final, steady and predatory gaze before melting away into the mall. The atmosphere in the shop immediately clears and returns to normal and I give myself a sound scolding for giving way to my imagination and go back to business.

Even so, I look both ways when I leave and cross the dark parking lot. Imagination notwithstanding, anything can happen on a foggy, starless night before Christmas and it's best to be prepared and pay attention.

Class, Privacy and Bad Manners

Okay, here's the thing.

I can tolerate people who think it's perfectly all right to hang their 8' by 8' club banner over several sections of the wine shelves. They've rented the wine shop for a private party and consider it their property, never mind that retail business is still being conducted.

I can tolerate and even be pleasant to the overdressed, overly made up women in their Gucci shoes, flashing oversized diamonds and painted nails as they gossip and snipe about where they're going for the holidays and how much it cost.

I can tolerate their husbands complaining about the price of jet fuel and the rising costs of tuition for private, European boarding schools.

I can tolerate catering to the rich and being treated like a scullery maid.

I can even tolerate watching the fake embraces and air kisses - it's so terribly continental.

However, when I watched a mildly well known doctor and his wife inspecting the half dozen gift baskets awaiting final wrapping and delivery for other customers and then open and read each of the six hand addressed and private gift cards as casually as they might read their morning newspaper, something snapped in me. I excused myself from pouring champagne and manoevered my way to the gift baskets and with the best smile that I could manage, asked Can I help you with something, doctor? Putting his arm around his wife's shoulders, he shook his head and hurried her away.

Money doesn't buy class.

It Only Rains in the Backyard

A clap of thunder woke me from a sound sleep and the small brown dog dived beneath the covers in a panic. Lightning cracked and I could hear rain on the roof, a steady, hard pounding rain, likely to last all day. Cat calls were already coming from the kitchen and the black dog was awake and anxious.

Both dogs arrived at the back door in a mindless rush of pre-dawn barking, took one look outside and fled for the safety of the bedroom, but knowing a trick or two myself, I walked to the front door and at the sound of the latch, they were at my heels and then outside in a flash. It was too early for traffic and I knew they wouldn't go far. I felt bad about taking advantage of their theory that it only rains in the back yard but by the time the cats had been fed, they were back on the front steps, rain soaked and shivering but none the worse for their small adventure. I toweled them off and began my own day.

There is a stark quality to this day. The branches of the crepe myrtle are clearly defined against the sky which is gray but also strangely bright although not with sunlight. It's warm for December, and the air is still and filled with damp. It feels like snow somehow, despite the temperature. One street down from me, Christmas Lane is beginning to take shape - each house erects a decorated tree and sets it in a neat row on either side of the street and at night the entire block is glittering with bright, colored lights. To and from work I pass arrays of angels and reindeer, sleighs and candles, made from white lights that glow and shimmer when the sun goes down. Some houses simply hang a wreath on the front door, others revel in a wretched excess of the season. Poinsettias seem to be on every doorstep and porch and the church bells play an endless reverie of chimes and carols. No matter the geography, it's the holiday season everywhere. The dogs don't know this, of course, neither has ever seen a real snowfall or even a Christmas tree and I suspect they share my feeling that Christmas is just another day.

After a certain age, I wonder if there's not a little humbug in all of us - a result of shattered illusions and reality. If they want to think it only rains in the backyard, so be it.

Chase, Corner, Calm

Nose poked through the mini blinds and every nerve quivering, the black dog suddenly erupts like an overheated volcano and begins a prolonged bout of frenzied howling. The small brown dog immediately joins in and startled cats jump for cover while I curse the flood of coke and ice that I have spilled onto my lap. It could have been a cat or a dog or a neighbor, the slam of a door or a blade of glass moving ever so slightly - she is a small powder keg of fear and tension, prone to random explosions without cause or warning. Once again I chase, corner, and calm her, all the while listening to my own heart pound with leftover shock. She wearies me beyond words and again I find myself thinking of a life without this wild, unpredictable and made of fireworks animal. And again, I know I cannot do it - we are chained, she and I, bound by the fact that it's not her fault and that I can't bring myself to end her life on account of a behaviour problem, despite the peace and quiet it would bring to the household. I would miss her too much.

The experts tell me her aggression is off the charts and based on fear, dominance, and the illness she suffered as a puppy. She is damaged and untreatable, every regrettable instinct she has exaggerated and heightened by misfiring circuits in her brain. She simply doesn't understand discipline or correction, doesn't respond to repetition or training, can't comprehend the word "no". She doesn't make the connection between actions and consequences, good or bad, has no impulse control and sees each cat she lives with as just another moving target. She is like a two year old in a perpetual and self sustaining tantrum - indestructible, inexhaustible, incomprehensible. And yet,
there is about her an endearing need to be loved and kept safe. She is never far from me, and were someone, anyone, to make a threatening move toward me, there would be severe consequences - she fights fiercely and blindly for what she loves with no thought of her own well being.

This is not your average dog, not anxious to please, not content to sleep in front of a warm fire and let the world go by, not able to discern good behavior from bad. She is over anxious and menacingly jealous, fearful and hostile, certain to bite without provocation, suspicious to the point of paranoia, and demanding of attention. She lives in a friendless and alien world and never lets down her guard. It may be that it is all these qualities that make me love and protect her so.

Sometimes I wonder what that says about me.

Wolves At The Door

The ocean in November is white capped and choppy, churning with the winter wind and dark colored with threat. The boats rise and fall on waves, lifted and dropped as if weightless under the overcast skies. The coastline is shadowy and sadly deserted, grimly missing the sunshine and warm days of summer. Winter is a constant storm, cold and gray with something close to menace in the air. Snow is on the way - not the glossy picture postcard kind, but heavy and crippling and endless. The glory days of green grass and afternoon picnics seem impossibly far away. Summer homes are shuttered and closed up, lightless and vacant with only a parttime caretaker to look in on them now and again. It's a long, lonely season for a small ocean side fishing village and wolves are at the door.

I stood in the front yard of this now desolate place, hearing only the wind and the waves. The family home had been sold for back taxes and I was trespassing on a stranger's property. I had come to say a final goodbye, come in a month I hoped would be just as it was, with no summer voices to call my name, no bread baking in Nana's beloved kitchen, no music playing. The house itself was cold and lifeless, shades drawn, locked and empty. The windows were grimy and the grass grew high and wild around the doors. The playhouse door was scarred and hung off it's hinges and the swing set lay on it's side, overgrown with weeds. Even the flagpole seemed defeated, patchy and in need of paint and a new halyard. The ferry was making it's slow way across the passage, fighting the currents and stubbornly clinging to it's course, a single pickup truck it's only passenger. The ocean churned and sent sprays of salt water over the scow, battling back with a persistent fury but the ferry continued it's steady progress. It docked and the pick up truck rattled off, passing me. The driver, a face I didn't recognize, gave me a small, cheerless wave as he drove by because in small villages like this one, everyone is acknowledged whether you know them or not. I nodded back and he drove off, turning onto the Old Road and disappearing in a minor dust storm.

I drove the length and breadth of the island that day, paying my respects to the past and the places that were still there and lingering at the ones that were not. The tides came and went with a reassuring certainty, the only constant thing here was the ocean. People come and go, houses change hands, and life finds a way - through the cold and bitter times, the heartache and loss, the warmth and happiness and the forgotten things, the wounds and the recoveries, life finds a way.

One for the Road

If bootlegged whiskey was not to be had on a Saturday night, the young fishermen raided island kitchens for vanilla extract. The process of getting drunk took longer but the effect was still the same - oblivion. They were proud of achieving this state, as if it were something of a contest and a medal might be awarded at the end. Hangovers were a warped measure of status and the bragging rights to an all out drunken brawl were hotly debated in the days that followed. Any undesirable behavior was shrugged off under the guise of "kids will be kids", any consequences were taken as "learning a lesson". None of it was considered dangerous or even serious and it was rare that anyone even considered intervening in these rites of passage.

A few days ago as I watched, for the second time in as many weeks, a co-worker determinedly drink herself into a staggering daze, I thought how little has changed. She walked in sober and bright eyed and in a matter of less than an hour was slurring her words, unable to keep upright, propositioning anyone with a pulse and crashing into the furniture. No one paid her much mind, she was just one more sloppy, knee walking drunk. Waiters weaved their way around her, customers caught her when she fell, and the bartenders kept pouring. At the end of the night, even the musicians on the small stage were keeping an eye on her, fearing that she and her drink would stumble into an amplifier or a microphone.

As the musicians packed up their equipment, she tumbled and sprawled out in a chair next to mine, throwing her arms around my neck and apologizing through wails of laughter. Her drink spilled, sending olives and alcohol splashing over both of us and unexpectedly she began to cry, harsh sobs that shook her thin shoulders and hurt my heart. I held her until she stopped and then took her keys. She didn't protest as I led her outside and into my car and I hoped with all my heart that she wouldn't get sick on the drive home.

The mind of an alcoholic is a maze of paths leading nowhere except to the next drink. I doubted she would remember the end of the evening but I was quite sure she would repeat it.

Coup d' Ville

She is 20-ish and beautiful, living with an out of work electrical engineer turned tattoo artist, going to school and working nearly full time. She is bright and funny, self confident and assertive, quick to learn and unafraid of life. But behind her stunning smile there is a frightened child, estranged from her family and struggling for every hard earned dime, willing to accept far less than she deserves and uncertain of every step she takes. She is a mystery, getting straight A's in her college courses while not knowing the meaning of dozens of everyday words, so when she asked me to teach her how to do crossword puzzles, I readily agreed. A word looked up, my daddy told me time and time again when I would ask him the meaning of something I'd read, is a word remembered. The gold bound Webster's was always kept on the top shelf of the bookcase and it's pages were stained and worn with use.

So, I mused, how to teach someone to "think in crossword". How to explain how it is that you simply know a word is right when a half dozen other words fit the same space and work equally well. I reached back in my memory to my daddy's instructions - Start with something you absolutely, positively know can't be anything else, he told me, like here, three letters for "A Gerswhin". Neatly, I filled in "Ira". Build on it, he continued, remember a plural clue must have a plural answer and that words have different meaning according to their useage. Don't think just nouns when the answer might be a verb. He nodded as I filled in Gnat, four letters for "pest", beginning with "g". And there''re crossword rules - an abbreviated clue will mean an abbreviated answer, a clue in capital letters will mean an answer in capital letters. I filled in RSVP for "words on an invitation and he smiled. A clue in a foreign language will mean an answer in a foreign language, he added. And if you're stuck, think in context and use it in a sentence. Work around the obstacles. I filled in more and more blank squares with him providing occasional hints and re-direction, prompting me with praise and encouragement. Sometimes there's a theme, watch for it. And remember, every puzzle ever devised has a solution though it may not be what you first think or what you want it to be. You have to get into the mind of the maker. It was a very long time before I realized that he'd been teaching far more than just how to solve a crossword puzzle.

Of course, he had never met this pretty, young thing tapping a pencil on the counter and frowning with concentration.
I doubt he ever imagined someone who would see the clue "coup d'____" and fill in "vile" for "coup d'vile".

Then again, he'd have been laugh out loud delighted with seeing her mind at work. They put erasers on pencils because people make mistakes, he'd have reminded me. And he'd have been absolutely, positively right.







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