Jacket Weather & Gypsies

In the early dark with fall so clearly in the air, I find myself missing New England and can't, for the life of me, think why. I think of woodstoves, leaves turning into the colors of fire, the promise of snow and mornings so bright they hurt your eyes and so cold they freeze your breath. Jacket weather, Nana would say, Don't forget your mittens.

On the mountain, two cords of wood would've been delivered and neatly stacked in the front yard. The screen porch would be abandoned til spring while frantic squirrels darted about gathering their winter food. We'd have mounted bird feeders on the back deck and Indian corn on the front door. If I were home, it would be maple syrup season on the farm and the thought of the old sugar mill brought back a quicksilver rush of memories - a gallon can of of syrup arrived each winter from Uncle Byron and it nearly lasted us til spring - my daddy would make Sunday breakfasts of pancakes and sweet french toast, an apron carefully tied around his blue dress pants and his tie tucked into his shirt, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and the sound of New Orleans jazz in the background. Not the hugely popular and well known artists but the likes of Illinois Jacquet - Ssssh! he would say, pausing in mid pour of a pancake, Listen to that saxaphone!

Winter jackets and scarves and boots would appear and Nana would find her mink collared wool coat and galoshes (an odd combination if ever there was one) and we all waited for the inevitable first winter storm. I remember Villager sweaters and wool skirts - jeans to school was an unthinkable concept back then - and shiny new boots from Jordan Marsh or Filene's. My daddy even wore a hat in those days, a Homburg with a crisp brim if he was going to work, otherwise a crumpled old fedora he refused to throw away. Everything seemed to change with jacket weather and the dying of the light.

Some years there would be a reprieve, a few last golden days of Indian summer in late October or even November, a time to treasure and hold in your heart through the offensive and often brutal, unending winter. It was in just such a time that the Gypsy King died. Services were held in the small chapel at the funeral home and I clearly remember my daddy telling me that the old man had been a lesser sort of king that the title suggests. He laid in his coffin, stern faced and stripped of jewelry, wearing a startling red vest and surrounded by family - immediate, long lost, or out of favor, they all came to pay their respects, honor their tribe and make amends where necessary. There were no women in beads or peasant skirts, their hair flowing over their shoulders while they danced barefoot, no tambourines or Gilbert Roland look-a-likes swashbuckling around the casket. These were simple mourners, ill at ease in conventional black suits and long dresses and although there was an occasional flash of gold hoop earring, it was mostly a traditional affair and I was bitterly disappointed. Be patient, my daddy told me, It's not over yet.

On the fourth day, the funeral procession formed in the street - the old man's body in a hearse, mourners in limousines - and at the front, a magnificent, saddled but riderless white stallion, led by an old woman in a bejeweled peasant blouse and an ankle length, brilliantly colored skirt. Her white hair cascaded to her waist, her wrists and arms were a maze of bracelets, she wore tiny cymbals on her fingers, bells around her slim ankles and flowers behind her ears. She was everything I had imagined and hoped for.

Sometimes we're forced to make concessions to jacket weather and conventional behavior.
Other times we're angry enough, brave enough, or constrained enough to set the gypsy free.

Watching the White Tiger

Watching the white tiger pace restlessly - as noble and magnificent creature as any God has created - I was saddened by his captivity and elated by the opportunity to see him. His mate sat nearby, eyes closed and still as a statue while he traced the same path around the enclosure, over and over again. I sat outside the glass, hypnotized by his blue eyes and entranced by the graceful and delicate way he moved, like a dancer doing a routine he knows by heart. He didn't seem to notice the visitors on the other side of safety but did pause several times to focus on a duck swimming on the grassy side. Lunch! a little boy cried over his grandfather's shoulder, He's thinking about lunch!

I was thinking about extinction and freedom and the cost of each. Here was a glorious animal in a small space, able to see the outside world but not be in it. The enclosure - I found I couldn't really face the word "cage" - was as natural as it could be made. There were trees and a pond, a cave and sunlight but nevertheless it was still enclosed and there was no place to go. I wondered if the tiger had been born in captivity or had once known the wild. Had he ever been on his own or had he always depended on keepers and caregivers. Was the pacing restlessness, boredom, desperation or just something to do. The female yawned, changed her position slightly, glanced his way and then went back to sleep. She was, it seemed, content, or possibly just disinterested.

The leopards were much the same. The female slept on a sturdy tree trunk, her back to the glass and barely stirring except for an occasional flick of her tail. The male below, paced around the perimeter, following the same path repeatedly, his sleek body sliding against the glass as he passed, causing the children to screech with fear and delight. He too moved like a dancer, and it was remarkably easy to forget his size and weight and see only his light and sure steps. He completed his rounds and laid down not far from the glass, his eyes alert but with no sign of curiosity, gave a mighty yawn and stretched out on his side.

After a visit with the cougar and then a few of the smaller cats, I went on to the giraffes and monkeys and hundreds of birds but before left, I stopped again at the cat enclosures. There is something in them that draws me, their power, incredible beauty, their perfect faces and self assuredness, their agility and pride. There is a sense of royalty about them that even a cage cannot diminish. Watching the white tiger gave me hope and peace.

Dull Knives & Other Distractions

The knife cut cleanly across the tip of my finger from the first joint to the fingernail. Blood didn't just flow, it welled up and gushed, running down my hand and onto the wooden counter and immediately soaking through the handful of cocktail napkins I grabbed. Bright, splintery pain set in almost at once and I hollered one curse at the shocking, unexpected sharpness of the blade and another at my carelessness. Liv ran for the first aid kit with all the speed her 7 month pregnant form allowed. Some four hours later, the blood still soaking through the makeshift bandages, I called Doc who instantly agreed to meet me at the office where he cleaned, stitched and rebandaged the wound, then sent me home with dire threats of what would happen should I fail to follow his instructions about elevation and ice. I am nothing if not an obedient patient and I did as I was told.

A moment's inattention and a sharp knife combined to cost me a half day's wages and a weekend of awkward, one handed chores - reminding me that small distractions can have nasty repercussions. I thought of my old friend in New England, pausing just seconds from her driveway to light a cigarette, taking her eyes off the road for the barest instant, and slamming into a telephone pole. I thought of the morning, running late and half awake, I reached for toothpaste and ended up with Prell on my toothbrush, the time I happened to find my keys, before I knew they were missing, atop a carton of eggs in the refrigerator. Small distractions, no real harm done.

Life's larger distractions - making money, attaining permanent center stage, the search for power - take a harsher toll. They can rob us of the happy moments, the friendships, the fulfillment that these all too brief moments offer if we're paying attention. It's good to have a destination in mind and a plan on how to get there but the things that really matter happen on the journey.

Beware unsolicited advice, troubles that aren't your own, cell phones while driving and sharp knives. Trek on.

Old Bones & Work Still To Be Done

My dear friend, Tricia, a rock of good sense and straightforwardness, of going directly to the point and refusing to compromise on truth or clarity, of believing in her own worth and ability, of independence, free will and loyalty, is in pain all the time. Her body is in a revolt of fibromyalgia, the residue of cancer, fatigue, and her old bones are saying Not no, but hell no. A lesser woman might retreat, might decide that enough was enough, might say no more and choose to stay in bed. A lesser woman might decide she's fought past the point of winning but not Tricia, not when there's still work to be done.

My cousin Linda, forced into early retirement and having spent all her life in a raging battle against an enemy in her very blood, could well have thought the same. Instead she writes, volunteers, cares for an aging parent, cooks, knits, and despite the still regular blood tranfusions and hours spent in emergency rooms, goes to church and keeps working for the community and the cause of gender fairness. She could let others carry the burden, could easily devote more time to herself, but for Linda, the fight isn't over and there's still work to be done.

My old bones have been far more kind to me and I've accomplished a good deal less.

In the relatively few and far between moments that I have for quiet reflection - mostly in the early morning dark, mostly with the animals peacefully sleeping and mostly at this keyboard - I consider life and adversity and the various and sundry things that keep us sustained and keep us going when it would be so much easier to hit the pause button.
Music, partners, children, the need to keep bills current, a love of life, self esteem or the lack of it, ambition, hope or sometimes just plain stubborness all factor in but mainly I think it's habit. We get used to living and have trouble imagining an alternative, nothingness being something that we can't quite grasp. For the most part, we are curious creatures, filled with odd combinations of emotions, seeking answers to questions we're not even sure of, rarely content with the status quo. There is always another corner to be turned, another chore to be completed, another success or failure to be had. The habit of living is learned early and it stays with us. Old bones or not, there are still expectations to be met and there will always be work still to be done. We will get done as much as we can and it will either be enough or not - the reality is that it's not really in our hands to begin or end with.

So we keep on - tending our gardens, caring for our young, serving where we can and stepping back where we can't, passing on what we've learned and knowing that for all our wisdom and experience, no one will really listen because we all have to learn for ourselves. More's the pity.

We Are Not Sisters

Among the people I have difficulty with are the Chatty Cathies of the world, anyone who fails to respect boundaries or assumes a friendship that doesn't exist, people who don't like animals, and anyone who reminds me of my mother. And in one fell swoop, I have met someone who is all of that and more.

She shuffles through the door each morning, a hulking figure in un-ironed clothes, walking with her shoulders hunched over and her arms swinging at her sides. Cruel or not, an image from Planet of the Apes forces its way into my mind. She mutters something that might or might not be a good morning and then, with the first of many heavy sighs, eases her considerable bulk into a chair. It's not a promising start to the morning. Soon there will be a long litany of aches and pains - her shoulder, her gall bladder, the side effects of her new medicine. This will expand to her mother's new thoracic surgeon, the price of tires at Walmart, her husband's ineptitude at caring for her child, last night's dinner of hamburger with seared onions, her nephew's latest haircut ( including a picture from her cell phone ), a recipe for pineapple and mandarin orange cake, her brother's tragic suicide ( 23 years ago ), each and every detail of her child's sinus infection and all the flaws of contemporary day care. It's wearying, irrelevant, distracting and endless. All of which, I am surprisingly slow to realize, would be little more than a nuisance but for the striking resemblance she bears to my mother and worse, my reaction to it. She rolls her chair close to mine to peer over my shoulder or ask a question, and I instinctively pull away. I flinch when she casually pats my shoulder, avoiding eye contact is a reflex, and I find myself feeling faintly queasy at the sight of her fat fingers and chewed nails.

We are not sisters, soulmates or friends, just two very different people who - for better or worse - share a small workplace. As my good friend from New England has advised me, I need only to be fair and not treat her badly due to a quirk of fate and an unfortunate resemblance to a dead woman.

Perhaps irony is no more than God's sense of humor, a reminder that you can't outrun the past even when the past is six feet under.

Truancy

When my grandmother Ruby died, my daddy packed a small suitcase and boarded a plane. My mother howled in frustration about being left alone for even the few days he would be gone but he was adamant and ignored her protests and tears. She sulked for the first day or two and then retreated into an alcoholic haze, refusing to leave her bed except to refill her glass. We steered well clear of her, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for meals and somewhat joyously skipping the nightly rituals of baths and early bedtimes. We told no one and it didn't occur to us that three children can't suddenly not attend school without someone noticing.

My grandmother Alice arrived in a fury, raging through the house like a mine sweeper. Truancy! she snapped at us, The very idea! We were unceremoniously packed up and dispatched to her house while she confronted our bewildered and dazed mother with a voice that would've frozen hell. Get out of my house! my mother shrieked and there was the sound of breaking glass before the sound of a slap. With pleasure! Nana snarled back, You can explain it to the police! This unexpected threat caught my mother's attention as indeed there were two uniformed officers at the door and my grandmother was too outraged to worry about neighbors or appearances. She hustled us out without a backward glance.

Overall, it was pretty much a small crisis. My daddy returned and smoothed things over with the school, an easy task considering the effort it took to smooth things over between the two women, and for a time, things drifted back to what we thought of as normal. He didn't speak of his mother's death or his time away but there was a little more sadness to him, a trace more weariness in his eyes. A quiet man to begin with, he withdrew a little further into his own thoughts and was often distracted. It was a time of silent mourning, I thought later, since there was no one to share the burden with. My mother, impatient, jealous and angry about the lack of his attention became more sullen and sharp tongued, but it washed over him harmlessly - he wouldn't be provoked except once when he mildly responded that she was behaving like a frantic fishwife. In a rage, she pitched her martini glass at him before breaking down into tears and running through a long list of his sins. When he still refused to engage her, she thundered out, slamming the storm door so hard that the glass cracked.

Addictive households tend to be isolated and secretive and it was a very long time before I realized that our way of life was a little out of the ordinary - I assumed that all parents fought violently, that all siblings were strangers and didn't get along, that icy silences, cold words, and contempt were the basics of family interaction.

Like so much in life, normal is a mostly a matter of your point of view.

Rocket Science: In Retrospect

Holding a paycheck in my hand, I solemnly weigh the alternatives. I can have my nails done - they are in sad shape and this is very tempting - or I can pay the yard man who cut the grass. Last week. My responsible side wins and with a final, sorrowful glance at my neglected nails, I put three new $10 bills into an envelope and slip then under his door.

I find consolation in the fact that this is a minor struggle and a nuisance but not an impossible decision like, choosing between groceries and the light bill, say. Or between medicine and fuel to get to a job so you can choose between groceries and the light bill. These are no easy times and the changes I had hoped for are still in the category of hoped for. I spend an entire day battling with insurance companies on behalf of patients on fixed incomes - trying to coax some semblance of reason out of so called customer advocates who are taught to deny, delay, obstruct and under no circumstances to actually think. Well into the third journey through the automated system, I finally reach a human being to whom I patiently repeat everything I have already told the non-human system - the doctor's name and address, id number, tax id number, the patient's name, date of birth, social security number, insurance id number, date of service, amount billed. Once she has all this information, she thanks me for calling and transfers me to a second human being who asks me each question all over again. I give her all the identical information, a little less patiently this time, time is money, after all and I've become a little weary by the sound of my own voice. When she asks if I'm calling for benefits or claims, I have a brief moment of hope that she might be able to handle both, but no, when I confess to needing claim details, she transfers me yet again.

In retrospect, suggesting ESL courses to the insurance rep on the other end of the line probably wasn't the most diplomatic approach and if I had it to do over again I might try and find an alternative to snarling that I'd had more intelligent conversations with broccoli. However, after two hours of being shuffled around from department to department, of listening to the same, bored, useless voices reading from their scripts and repeating the same, bored, useless answers, none of which related to the actual questions I was asking, after realizing once again that to deal with a health insurance company is to deal with people who are intentionally trained not to think - well, the words were out and it was still a notch above screaming or letting loose a stream of most unladylike profanity. There had been a short lived glimmer of hope when one of these illiterates had suggested that the answers I sought could be found in THE CLAIMS REVIEW DEPARTMENT. This thin ray of optimism had been immediately extinguished when, after asking to be connected with the aforementioned department, I was informed that they had no telephones. I honestly didn't mean to laugh out loud at this priceless piece of fairy tale but the image of a pony express rider, saddle bags filled with insurance claims destined never to be paid, leapt unsummoned into my head.

The main problem with script readers is that anything outside the script throws them off balance and without the resource of reason, they have nowhere to go. I take a breath, determined to be calm but unwilling to let him off. Ok, I tell him, Let me get this straight. This plan covers xrays. This claim is for an xray. Therefore you should pay the claim. Where exactly is this wrong? There is a long silence before he finally offers to resubmit the claim for a second review, conceding the highly remote possibility that it might have been denied in error. The battle is won but the war continues and after eight hours of similar exchanges, I long for the simple financial decisions between my nails and the yard man - insignificant, trivial, and harmless to anyone's health.

The Creature on the Fence

The creature on the fence glares at me in the fading light of dusk. I imagine I see teeth and a tail, a wicked set of talons, and menacing eyes. This is no social call, no passerby with friendly intentions, no inadvertent trespasser. This is an intruder with mischief on his mind and a black heart. My eyes adjust and with a shock I realize that this is no ordinary small, wild animal and no apparition. This is, down to the last detail, a skunk.

I can hardly believe my straining eyes but there's no doubt about it. I can make out a fluffy tail and a white stripe, a small body perfectly balanced and almost silhouetted against the upcoming night sky. My instincts are to run but the dogs are in the yard and the possibility for disaster is limitless - I call to them softly and the creature seems to listen intently, his ears perking up, his head swiveling toward the back fence. As he lifts his tail, my heart sinks and I try to prepare myself for the worst. Home remedies are flying through my mind at the speed of light - tomato juice, vinegar mixed with something that I can't remember, club soda, lemon juice - none of which, as I remember, were terribly effective and although I vaguely recalled my grandmother having some success with hydrogen peroxide, I was reasonably sure I had none on hand. I'm also working furiously to remember what I actually know about skunks and their habits but all I'm pretty sure of is that they won't spray unless provoked or seriously threatened. That and a ridiculous image of Pepe Le Pew with a Maurice Chevalier accent are all my mind can conjure.

The creature scratches the fenceboards and takes a few careful steps forward. He is almost tentative and his chunky body sways slightly. The dogs are still a safe distance away and I decide to change tactics and keep them away rather than call them in. I flatten myself against the side of the house and very slowly inch my way toward the rear of the yard, hoping the skunk will sense no movement, hoping the dogs will stay occupied with whatever they're doing. The strategy very nearly works - I reach the back fence and snatch the small brown dog up under one arm then manage to corner the black dog and snag her collar. We are halfway back to the porch, mere yards from sanctuary, when the terrier next door bursts forth from his doggy door and launches into a stream of canine invective. The skunk tenses, hissing and lifting his tail high, then as the terrier throws himself against the fence, the creature loses his balance and pitches off, headfirst into the shrubs. On my side of the fence. My own dogs, mad with curiosity and excitement, begin to struggle violently, barking like the world is coming to an end and begging to be set free. There is a commotion in the shrubs, dry leaves crackle and twigs break, and the skunk emerges, gives itself a hearty shake and then comically waddles off, passes through the gate and down the driveway. The crisis has been averted and while all three dogs howl in frustration, I can only thank the gods of the wild things that no harm came to any of us, including the creature on the fence. Making a mental note to add hyrogen peroxide to my next grocery list, I head inside and the dogs follow.

Three Yards & A Cloud of Dust

The Morehouse twins, Jacob and James, had been inseparable practically since their birth on a cold November night in a buckboard on their way to the mainland hospital. When apart as infants, they screamed until put together. They shared homemade toys and slept in the same crib, learned to crawl and walk at the same time, their tiny hands clasped tightly. They liked the same foods, the same people, the same adventures and the same old hunting dog. They played games with one mind, thought alike and progressed at the same pace. This unnerved their mother but made their daddy proud - both boys learned to read, shoot, drive, even swim with equal agility when tossed off the wharf at high tide. They were ripe with curiosity and mischief and learned early that being identical was an easy out in times of trouble. They sounded alike, wore matching jeans and shirts, combed their hair the same. Name tags would make things a mite easier, Uncle Willie was heard to say the day one of his cows went missing, Ain't never real clear who done what. The stolen cow was returned after a day or two when Sparrow located her peacefully grazing on a hill above the cove, not fifty yards from the boys' farm but better than five miles from home. Regrettably, the twins had thoroughly doused her with green food coloring, borrowed from Mr. McIntyre's store, and Willie - disgusted and too humiliated to be seen with a green milk cow - had been forced to borrow a horse trailer and bring her home well after dark. Each twin brazenly claimed innocence and since no one could prove which had actually done the deed, the incident passed into history. Both boys were scolded with all the ferocity their daddy could summon, which wasn't, even he admitted, much - the image of a green cow kept interfering with his efforts and it took most of his energy just to keep a straight face.

There followed the matter of the release of an unsuspecting field mouse into a church supper, the greasing of a prize pig on auction day, the sugar and salt substitution at McIntyre's just a day before the bake off for the Sunday School picnic, and the raising of a pair of lace edged knickers in place of the flag at the new post office building which resulted in the simultaneous and very public faint of the Swift sisters, three yards and a cloud of dust from their veranda. Neither Miss Violet or Miss Victoria was ever to utter a single word to the twins again which caused considerable interest in the ownership of the knickers despite the fact that under the most direst of threats from their mother, neither twin would ever divulge their origin. Bloomers on a flagpole! Miss Hilda exclaimed over tea with Nana, How extraordinary!

The twins were redeemed and mostly forgiven when both left to join the Royal Canadian Navy and returned as officers and presumably gentlemen. Several days later, a brown wrapped parcel was left discreetly on the Swift sisters' doorstep - it contained a single pair of white ladies knickers with lace edging and a cursive, monogrammed "V". It was, Miss Violet and Miss Victoria said, the best apology they'd ever had.

High Water

The morning was clear and a little on the muggy side, especially for November. The riverfront was mostly deserted, a handful of flannel shirted men in line for the gun show, a young woman walking a half grown yellow lab, an old man watching the fountains, his clasped hands resting on his cane. And the homeless man - tall, thin, shockingly young and slowly shaking out his sleeping bag in the shadows of the trees. He folded his meager belongings and stuffed them into a backpack then walked to the water's edge and knelt, splashed water onto his face. His face and hands were streaked with grime and dirt, his hair hung to his shoulders, lank and lifeless. He walked with a slight limp and a pronounced world weariness.

The river had changed. The current was rough and moving fast, washing away pretty much anything in its path. Most of the grass was underwater and cordoned off, a new lake had formed where there had been solid ground and there were new boundaries of yellow tape and plastic fencing made of bright orange mesh. I walked the perimeter, listening to the rushing river and feeling the early morning sunshine, thinking about a young man forced to sleep on the wet grass in a city park, wondering how a person gets to such a place and how he stays there. Not all November mornings would be as warm or as kind to him as this one. Winter, when it comes, will make him more visible to the rest of us still secure enough to have a bed to sleep in and choices for breakfast.

Perhaps he's just passing through, I think, on his way to a Florida beach like a migrating bird. Perhaps he will find work and shelter along the way, like a migrant fruit picker from the 20's. Or perhaps he's a drifter by choice, shunning attachments and in love with the open road. None of these romantic notions seem likely - I like them because they camouflage the reality and make me feel less guilty. Trash! my mother would have said, Too lazy to do anything except collect his welfare checks! My grandmother would have given the young man a wide berth, dismissing him in much the same way. Even my daddy would have frowned and steered clear, It's no sin to be dirty, I could hear him tell me, But it's a crime to stay that way. Crossing Boston Common one early winter afternoon after a day of shopping, I remember asking my grandmother, Do they like living that way? She snatched my hand and gave me a jerk, Bums! she snapped, Of course they do!

Meanwhile, the river rushed on, carrying helpless branches and clumps of grass along with it, things that never had a choice about being washed away.

Imperfect Produce

Like bananas going bad and ultimately fated to be bread, we are all imperfect produce.

We begin young and green, progress to bright yellow and taut skinned. Then we age, developing brown spots and soft sections. Finally we overripen and turn to mush, ready to be made into something entirely new. It's not a completely dark analogy and of course the time frame for a banana is much more brief - it has only a few days while we have lifetimes - and being just this side of overripened has its advantages as unlike a banana, we are granted the grace to reflect, evaluate, change and prepare. We can, if we choose, reverse the process of going bad.

We are all flawed and that's what makes us interesting, my daddy would say, Who would care if we were perfect? He believed in the innate goodness of people, saw us as imperfect people in an imperfect world, mostly trying to do the right things. It was not, sad to say, a view I shared while growing up, and one I do not always share even now. I have my mother's dark side, being inclined to see the worst in myself and others, and seeing little hope for redemption. I am a natural cynic and have no faith in the popular belief that People Change - circumstances change, relationships change, and people adapt superficially but their core beings remain intact, they continue to be whatever they are. We may grow and change faces as needed, learn to alter our tone or modify our behavior, we may even conform and cave in, but we still are what we are, perhaps what we have learned or are destined to be. Unlike the poor banana, we choose the roads we travel and the company we keep. Most of us choose to stay what we become despite all the alternatives. In some, this is positive, good, and strong - stubborness can be a virtue seen in the light of temptation. In others, it can be dark and dangerous - obstinacy in the face of common sense can be foolish.

Green to yellow to brown to bread. In the cosmic sense, I wonder if fruit didn't get the better deal.

Surrendering with Grace

Long before the alarm is set to go off, a small paw brushes insistently across my cheek. When I open my eyes, I see a black cat sitting alarmingly close, his green eyes focused intently on me, one paw poised in mid air. Go 'way, I tell him, It's too early. The paw reaches out and rests on my forehead, firmly and with purpose. I dig deeper beneath the covers and try to hide but this only serves to initiate a full scale attack - with a loud meow of protest, he throws all his weight against me, waking the other animals and escalating the situation to defcon 3. He's made up his mind to be hungry and the fact that it's barely 4am is irrelevant. Resistance is futile and I recall my daddy saying, You're never so badly beaten that you can't surrender with grace. So I do.

In the dark yard, the dogs immediately raise an unholy ruckus and race for the back fence, probably in pursuit of one of the neighborhood cats, but possibly on the scent of a maurauding raccoon or my old friend, the possom. I doubt it makes much difference, the chase and the amount of commotion they can create seem to be the main objectives. Just as I finish doling out catfood, they return and crash against the back door, jarring my senses fully awake. There will be no peace until the cats are done and I give the dogs the remnants, a process that cannot be hurried despite my best efforts. They badger me with pitiful barking, twining around my ankles like small wind up toys. You don't have to yell, I tell them in my best discipline voice, It won't help. Some twenty minutes later I crawl back into bed, hoping against hope for just one more hour, but sleep - a transient and disloyal friend at best - has wandered off to be with someone else and returns just seconds before the tiny clock begins its noisy wake-up chirping. Real morning has arrived and at the sound of the alarm, dogs and cats alike go into a frenzy, the 4am incident already forgotten. I'm left to wonder just how much grace or surrender I have left.

After a shower and half a chocolate bar, I discover that I do still have a reserve of both, at least, I think, enough to get me through the day. Tomorrow is too far off to fret about.

Clothespins

Before her frail days, Aunt Belle had been a powerhouse - raising a family of six boys and two girls, managing a working tree farm, seeing to all the details of everyday life with efficiency and skill. She rose early to feed chickens and milk cows, labored long into the night to balance books, and in between found time to feed, clothe, and shelter her husband and family. She laughed often and never complained.

Life overtook her without warning one fine Monday morning as she hung the wash and suddenly couldn't remember the word for clothespins. She laughed it off as forgetfulness, Something a woman of my age is certainly entitled to! she told my grandmother, and went about her business. A few evenings later, she forgot to make dinner and a week or so later she got lost in the woods she had grown up in, not recognizing her own daughter who found her curled up next to a pine tree and crying. She began wandering into the village, asking directions to places no one had heard of, smiling and singing snatches of nursery rhymes to herself, sometimes barefoot, sometimes carrying a basket of apples that she would offer to sell for a nickel. Kind hearted friends and neighbors would come to her aid, locating one of her children or leading her gently home - sometimes they just stayed nearby, keeping an eye on her until her husband Peter arrived, at a loss as to how to talk to her to through this growing mist of confusion and lost memory. She had moments, sometimes whole days, of clarity and clear thinking and became the woman she had been but as the months passed, such times became more and more rare, until Peter reluctantly called the childen home to be with her. Even though the responsibility was shared, the stress, worrry and guilt took their toll and the family began to fragment and lose structure, the dementia was unpredictable, not well understood and fearfully strong, requiring more patience and tolerance than Peter or the children could sustain.

Belle herself - still lucid enough, often enough - knew only that things were going dreadfully wrong and that she couldn't stop or correct it. She felt compromised and a burden, murkily trying to struggle through her days and remember the basics but more often lost and frustrated, not sure of something as simple as where her next few footsteps might lead. She seemed to better at night when she and Peter would sit quietly in the orderly little kitchen but sometimes she wept and could not say why. On those nights, he put her to bed early and lay next to her until she fell asleep, hoping for rest, peaceful dreams and a better tomorrow, praying for strength to face it.

Five years to the day that she had forgotten what clothespins were called, Belle went into Dalhousie, into the hands of mental health professionals. It's just for a little while, Peter assured her as the children said their goodbyes, I promise it's just for a little while. Of course it wasn't and he could only desperately hope that she didn't know it or would forgive and maybe in time forget. For the first time, he prayed that the dementia would not let her go and that she would find some kind of contentment and peace. He visited every week, spending every spare minute with her and bringing the children and grandchildren whenever he could but seeing only a stranger with a false smile and sad eyes.

Strange how often in the battle between strength and frailty, frailty so often wins.

The Coffin Maker

I had heard stories that deep in the Maine woods, in a small and isolated cabin at the very end of a dirt road, there lived a coffin maker, a man who had fled civilization and modernization for a solitary life, an artist and woodworker who had tired of time clocks and fast food and small talk.

I came across him by accident, trailing after the dogs on an early autumn morning, through the woods and across the pasture, crossing the tiny brook where the deer often gathered, past the abandoned fence lines of Squirrel Point and finally into a small clearing. The cabin stood in the shadows of the trees, looking like a dusty old painting with the sun at its back and a carefully stacked woodpile by the door. A battered pick up truck was parked nearby, its bed covered with a tarp and its windows rolled down and behind it I could see what looked to be a well, roofed with old shingles, a wooden bucket hanging from a frayed rope in the center. The dogs, curious but strangely silent, approached the cabin door where a scarred and clearly ancient tiger cat slept on the window sill. It woke and looked at the them briefly, remarkably impassive and unconcerned, then yawned and buried its head in its paws. Just as remarkably, the dogs gave him no more than a passing glance. There was poetry and a strong feeling of peace in this place, and, I realized with a start, whistling in the air.

The front door of the cabin swung open with a creaking groan and a man appeared. He held a tin cup of coffee in one hand, a pair of worn safety glasses hung 'round his neck. He looked first at the dogs, approvingly, I thought, and then at me, a little less so. Taking a step onto the porch and paying no mind to the dogs, who immediately ran past him to inspect the interior of the cabin, he nodded in my direction. Mornin', he said evenly, Lost yer way, have you? He could have been twenty or forty, tall and thin with dark hair streaked with gray and tied back in a loose pony tail. He wore ragged jeans and a denim shirt streaked with what I thought at first might be blood but then realized was a combination of dirt, paint, varnish and sweat. He stepped aside - he was barefoot, I saw and unaccountably I was surprised - and held the tin cup toward me, Coffee?

The inside of the cabin was lit by lanterns and sunlight. It was spartan - a wood stove against the wall, a single cot, neatly made and covered with a quilt, a wooden table with two ladder backed chairs, a lone cabinet in a corner and a set of shelves mounted on the wall, holding a few plates, a few plastic glasses, a blue and white cup of silverware. A frying pan and a couple of dented pots were hung on nails by the stove and on the back of the single open closet door, a yellow slicker hung on a hook. Inside I could see a pair of muddy work boots beneath a wall of hooks and nails on which rested several flannel shirts, several pairs of blue jeans, a set of longjohns and a navy jacket. A well worn and small chest of drawers sat to the side and I suspected I was seeing the whole of his wardrobe. This was not a man who made concessions - a washstand stood next to the stove, on it a ceramic wash basin and within the basin, a matching but chipped pitcher with a delicately curved handle. I was struck by a memory of Nana's Nova Scotia house, where each bedroom featured just such a set of basin and pitcher although only for show. Mr. McCauley's washstand was obviously not just decoration - a lone and well used bar of a soap, a razor strap, and a folded, shabby handtowel lay neatly beside the basin.

He poured coffee into a mug, handed it to me, and gestured toward the table in the center of the room. Name's McCauley, he told me as he took a chair opposite me, And who are these fine boys? Both dogs had taken up positions at his side and as he scratched their ears, they contentedly laid their muzzles on his thigh, tails wagging
fiercely. Good dogs, Golden Retrievers, he told me across the table, Smart, brave, loyal as all get out. Almost as worthy as a cat. He laughed at this and glanced over his shoulder toward the window where the old tiger cat was now sitting and looking in through the glass with a somewhat bored expression.

Before we left, Mr. McCauley showed me the only other room of the cabin, a workshop that overlooked the woods and far mountains and smelled of wood and hard work, private and solitary work, done by commission only, I later learned. Each coffin was crafted, lined, hinged and polished, one meticulous step at a time - they shone in the morning light, each resting on a pair of sturdy sawhorses that stood a foot or so apart on the planked, unfinished wooden floor of the second room. There were five in all, four completed and one still in progress. They ranged from the simplest - clean lines, sharp corners and plain handles - to the most elaborate - smoothly curved edges with intricate carving and gleaming gold hardware. On the other side of the room, there were two work benches, a wooden stool, and shelf upon shelf of supplies, hammers and screwdrivers, box after box of wooden pegs in different sizes, cans of paint and varnish and lacquer, stacks of polishing cloths, cans of turpentine and an assortment or cleaning rags, sandpaper, paint brushes and hand saws. Everything was neatly arranged and easily accessible. Here Mr. McCauley spent his days, creating coffins against the backdrop of the Maine woods, with only nature and old tiger cat for company.

After a time, the dogs and I left, returning the way we had come in the late afternoon dusk. I spoke of the coffin maker to no one, keeping the visit private and never making the trip a second time. I wasn't entirely sure why, but I instinctively knew that Mr. McCauley would've preferred it. I was to see him again, though. On a frosty cold November morning in Kittery, I passed Pelkey's, the town's only funeral home, and noticed a familiar pick up truck with a tarp covered bed. Workers were sliding a padding covered coffin down a ramp under the watchful eyes of a tall, thin, long haired man in jeans and a navy jacket. As I drove slowly by, he glanced my way, nodded and raised a tin cup of coffee toward me. I smiled back.

Mr. McCauley's choice of coffin making and seclusion, his decision to live apart from the rest of us, remained his own. In some ways, privacy is a gift we can only give ourselves and should be honored, respected, and left alone.

Rabbits in the Rose Garden

My first marriage lasted a total of ten years, most of it spent in the south, living in the same city as my husband's family. Looking back, I wonder that I never got to know them any better.

My father in law was an intimidating and impressive figure - businessman, scholar, philanthropist, philosopher, newspaper publisher, teacher - but he could never could invent a way to keep the rabbits out of his prized rose garden. It drove him wild that the small brown creatures regularly outwitted him, devouring the satiny rose petals with abandon. He tried feeding them, tried barb wire and a variety of types of fencing, even tried moving the entire garden but the raiding rabbits returned night after night, season after rose growing season. The fragile flowers were too much temptation and too easy a target.

My mother in law - a mystifyingly kind and gentle spirit with the protective instincts of a tiger when it came to her children - also loved flowers but preferred to work in solitary in her greenhouse, especially on the cool, clear spring mornings. She gardened for the pure pleasure of working with her hands and the soil and often emerged with smears of dirt on her face and stray leaves in her coiffed hair. When company arrived, she would throw open the front door and cry, Come in my house! with intense sincerity and she gave untold hours of her time to charity, the elderly, the less fortunate and the Presbyterian church.

When I came to know them, they lived in a house of their own design, a showcase and the grandest I had ever seen, five bedrooms each with its own bath and some with their own dressing rooms, formal living and dining, den, breakfast room and kitchen plus servants quarters, swimming pool with changing rooms and a pool house, multi car garage, wine cellar and greenhouse. It always seemed to be filled with flowers and light, artwork and antiques, precious and beautiful things collected on their travels yet it was a touchable house. After the children had grown and left, only a cat named Socrates was kept for company. I was surprised that he never got lost.

As the end of my marriage approached, I came to realize how little I knew my in laws - their history was public enough, their community service was well known, their accomplishments were often headline news. Their name opened doors and made things possible but of the people underneath, I knew next to nothing. It was precisely the opposite with my own family - I had no idea where my parents had met or courted or even married, but I knew far too many details about the war their marriage had become.

I learned from each - that no family is perfect, that dysfunction comes in many shapes and sizes, that everyone is flawed, some far more than others, and that we all would rather keep our flaws to ourselves and pretend to be normal. We all have rabbits in our rose gardens.

A Fine Wolf

Miss Eula didn't have much use for store bought or outsiders.

She raised her own chickens, grew her own garden, kept cows for milk, did her own canning and became a beekeeper rather than pay the price for sugar in town. When the need for coffee or tobacco arose, she hitched up her old hay wagon and made the trip into town to barter fresh eggs or honey at McIntyre's. She could curse with the best of them, drink any man under the table, hold her own at a poker table and in her old straw hat and faded overalls rolled up to her knees was the best barehanded eel catcher anyone had ever seen.

As many island women did, she lived alone and liked it, preferring the company of nature and farm animals to most people. She minded her business and demanded that others do the same - she rose each day before the sun and worked in solitary silence until after dark, taking pleasure in familiar routines and chores, never allowing a moment of idleness to interfere with her daily plans. She kept her old house in immaculate order, swept her porch every morning and night, washed every window once a week and pulled weeds as if she was battling the devil himself. When evening came, she would read by lantern light or make notes in her journal, random thoughts she shared with no one, a simple one sided conversation about everyday life.

She met the wolf on a moonlit September night just as she finished an entry reminding herself that one of the hay wagon wheels needed looking at. Closing the cover of the ragtag old book, she heard a soft growl and looked up to see a pair of yellow eyes not twenty feet from the porch. Not one to panic, she calmly reached for her shotgun and braced it against her shoulder, drawing down and taking careful aim, unwilling but still prepared to shoot if need be. The standoff didn't last long, Just a few seconds, I reckon, she told my grandmother a few days later, Then he up and slunk off. But there was a blood trail. The following morning, she did a careful count of her chickens and cows before setting off, shotgun under her arm. Took three days 'fore I found her, she admitted to Nana, and when I did, wasn't a way in hell I could put her down. She had found the beast in a cave on the coast, scrawny and half starved with a badly fractured back leg, too weak to put up a fight. She muzzled it with her neckerchief and carried it home, packed it in the hay wagon and drove to Rowena's. Lord a mercy, Eula, Rowena had exclaimed, It's a wolf! The two women, each too tender hearted for their own good, doctored the animal for a month, force feeding it, keeping it warm, and eventually realizing that the leg would have to come off. They accomplished this with a good deal of whiskey, a bottle of ether Rowena kept for emergencies, and an axe - Nana cringed at this part of the story, not able to imagine the force which must have been required and the fortitude. Bandaged her up proper, Eula recounted proudly, then carried her back to the old chicken coop and fenced her in.

Neither woman held much hope for the crippled animal but the damaged wolf survived and slowly made the transition from four legs to three, learning to walk, then trot, then flat out run. Learning to trust and overcome her instincts was another matter altogether and it took over a year of Eula's patience and caregiving before they developed a cautiously distant relationship - Eula stopped carrying her shotgun and the wolf stopped baring her teeth at the old woman's approach, they seemed to respect their differences and territory and over time they worked out a plan of peaceful coexistence. Not countin' the chickens and cows, 'course, Miss Eula told me with a wink, They never did come a trustin' place. Another year passed before the nights began to be punctuated with clear, eerie howls that sent shivers down Eula's spine. She thought they might be calls, messages sent on the nightwind, pleas for freedom. She thought it might be time.

One fine fall evening, the old woman walked to the chicken coop and the sleeping wolf and unlatched the gate. She watched as the animal woke and got to her feet, lifted her head and gave out a long, lonely, wail of a howl, then trotted slowly out of the enclosure and toward the woods, back to the dark woods and the wild things. She never returned but Sometimes, Eula told Nana, Sometimes I think I see those yellow eyes through the trees, like she's passin' by and just checkin' in to make sure everythin's right. Three legs or not, she was a fine wolf.

Cash Flow

I run out of money twice a month, regular as Nana's old ship clock.

I've learned to be relatively philosophical about it - resigned might be a better choice - over the past couple of years. There is still a roof over my head and there's no danger of it being taken away, the old car is aging but still running most of the time, I have two jobs, both reasonably secure, my animals are warm and well fed, and all things being equal, I'm intact and healthier than most I know in my age bracket. These are not small things in the current environment but I find it annoying to live on a shoestring and I doubt I will ever embrace the concept of a budget - it offends my sense of free will and worse, it's confining, constraining, tiresome and, I'm convinced, bad for the economy.

Sitting on the patio of the restaurant last night with my friend Henry who has been out of work for all of this past year, I was reminded of just how much more dire things could be. A job he did for 20 years and loved went up in smoke. He feels out of options, resources and hope and I listened to him talk for the better part of 2 hours about the job market, the competition, the mindset of businesses/corporations, and the futility of depression and apathy. He didn't deflect or make jokes or hide behind a wall of stoicism, but rather spoke of how it feels to be dependent on government benefits, to have self confidence and pride be turned into self doubt and hesitation and be one of thirty or forty applicants - half his age and all degreed and hungry - in line for an interview. After ten months of searching and struggling, of watching bills mount and threaten to engulf him, of having nothing to do, he feels purposeless and is battling the impulse to retreat and dig in. The light at the end of the tunnel seems farther and farther away and moving rapidly.

Economics and income aside, working for a living gives us a place in life and a reason to get out of bed each morning. We are needed and useful, we provide a service or a product, we have substance and recognition and self esteem. We also stay connected to people, interacting and negotiating on a regular basis, being part of something outside ourselves and being challenged to stay in tune and active. Cash flow matters - we all need to eat and keep body and soul together after all - but life is more than duck, cover, and hold on while you're waiting.

Canning Season

Uncle Perry was 104 when he died, at home in his own bed, surrounded by family and the sound of the sea. He gave Aunt Millie a final smile and squeezed her hand slightly, then closed his eyes and took a last breath. Millie wiped her tears, kissed his forehead, and then put on her apron to begin feeding the friends and relatives. It was the end of summer but still a busy season and there was much to be done - she had been in the middle of canning the last of the blueberries when Perry fell ill, having spent weeks putting up peach preserves, strawberries, and blackberry jam. It was a tradition and couldn't be abandonded. Your daddy could never abide waste, she told her oldest daughter with a bittersweet smile, Not in people or time and certainly not in preserves.

There were no signs that Millie was planning to give up. She finished her canning, continued to live in the house that Perry had built for her, turned up at church most every Sunday, still made biscuits every morning. Her children and grandchildren made time to spend with her and Uncle Willie made sure the old house was kept up, that the woodpile was stocked and the chickens fed. Island women dropped by regularly and a steady parade of children ran errands and did small chores. Millie welcomed one and all, understanding that this was her community doing what it did for those in need and that any protest would have fallen on deaf ears. But after the first year, she was worn out from the attention, from missing Perry, and from the effort of every day life and feeling fragile. She was ready to move on. These old bones weren't meant to last this long, Alice, she told my grandmother over biscuits and honey, And I reckon Perry's gettin' tired of waiting. I b'lieve I won't do any cannin' this season.

And she didn't. Nana arranged for the berries to be picked and then passed out all over the island to be canned and set aside for the winter. Aunt Millie oversaw it all, even teaching those who had never made preserves and passing on her recipies and meticulous directions. When she was satisfied that all was in good hands, that the importance of preserving and preparing for long winter nights had been established for another generation, when she had said her goodbyes and thank you's and written in her Bible for the final time, she stoked the wood stove to overflowing and sat in her old rocking chair by the window, rocking and watching the sea, until she fell asleep. Her work and her last canning season were over and she was not just content, but well pleased to move on.

Prepare for the winter, preserve for the future, and leave when the season is right, she told my grandmother the night before she died, It's been a good life but I'm done now.

Brick, and Iron and Charcoal Gray

I often dream of my grandmother's house.

Solid, immutable red brick and iron on the outside, charcoal gray and somber on the inside, a quiet and conservative house with huge, uncluttered rooms and walls devoid of pictures or decorations. The carpet was mostly gray wall to wall and the wallpaper was so plain as to be unnoticed. There were heavy lamps on small end tables, understated floral furniture with iron firmness in their pillows and arms and elegant but forbidding wood. No bookcases to gather dust, no array of family portraits on the stairway wall, no flowers or ivy to soften the harshness of each perfectly kept room. It was a serious house, a house that commanded you to be calm and quiet, never run or raise your voice. There was a museum quality to it that frightened even the everyday dust away.

I slept in the room at the top of the stairs, a wide open space with one dresser, two single beds on opposite sides of the room and a remarkably long and narrow wooden table with a single cast iron lamp in the center, carefully aligned in front of the two small windows. From the only other small window across the room, I could see light from the street lamps and knew that just across the street there was a house of color and happy disarray where my friend Iris and her family lived, a house where the television would play late into the night, a house where a child was encouraged to write and draw on the attic walls, where laundry gathered in a pile on the back stairs and a huge, shaggy dog slept on the elegant oriental carpets without fear of reprimand for shedding. Dogs were fine in the Nova Scotia house, but here, the mere thought of pet hair would make my grandmother wince. Meals were sometimes haphazard, there was always music, and if you left something out of place, it might stay that way. I thought of that house as I drifted off to sleep between cool, starched sheets with hospital corners in a house that was very nearly sterile in its feel. Sometimes, knowing Nana was safely positioned in front of Lawrence Welk, I would steal out of bed and creep into her dark bedroom, so very much like my own but for a tiny dressing table and bench covered in bright checked gingham, the only touch of color in a vast, echo-y chamber, the only room beside the kitchen that even suggested her presence. It was, I came to realize later, a house my grandfather had made - somber, respectful, polished but dull, almost Victorian in its sparsity, a proper house for a successful undertaker. You did not spill things here and you most certainly did not go to bed without a bath.

After his death, I thought there might be some redecoration, some brightness, some primary colors to replace the muted pastels. But my grandmother maintained the house just as it had always been, finding, I imagine, some comfort in familiar surroundings and the perpetual duskiness of drawn shades and heavy curtains. She was, at heart, a dedicated traditionlist, republican to her core and in many ways, devoted to all the devils she knew. I often suspected the old house knew it.

Richardson's Corner Road

Darrell Wayne had worked in the lumber mill all his life, following a tradition originally set by his great grandfather. He was a rough and tumble young man, hard drinking, hard living and hard working, fond of course language and high stakes poker games but always cheerful about his lot in life, always the first in line to lend a hand to a friend. The night of the accident he had taken on a extra run with the logging truck when another driver had called in sick. He never gave it a second thought, climbing into the cab and roaring off into the cold night, airhorn blaring and every light on the truck aglow.

The collision with the pickup truck happened on a deserted, back country two lane road an hour or so later. Darrell Wayne had made the turn at Richardson's Corner and was headed downhill when the pickup came into sight, weaving and veering toward him like a drunken sailor. In the split second before impact, both drivers tried to adjust their courses but space and time ran out and they met with such a devastating and shattering force that residents of nearby homes expected to find a crashed aircraft and body parts scattered along the road. Instead, they found survivors - both men crushed, broken and burned, but alive. The woods were alive as well with rapidly spreading fire and in a matter of minutes an entire small town mobilized, pulling the victims away from the wreck, coordinating fire fighting efforts, saving the lives of two strangers as well as what was so precious to them personally.

God must've been watching that boy, Aunt Pearl remarked to the Ladies Quilting Circle when the news reached the island, I expect this will change his life. My grandmother laughed a little harshly, Don't hold your breath, dear, she told Pearl, Darrell Wayne t'ain't likely to find the Lord over this.

After several months in hospital and several more in rehabilitation, Darrell Wayne emerged, intact save for a number of pins holding his broken bones together and a pronounced limp. The pick up driver had lost an arm but was otherwise healthy and the two had, strange as it seemed, forged an enduring friendship and kept in touch for the rest of their lives. Each year on the anniversary of the accident, they traveled to Richardson's Corner Road, offered up a brief prayer and then got what Uncle Shad called "knee walkin' drunk" together. Mighty strange way to say thanks, Shad told my grandmother with a shrug and Nana just laughed. As she had suspected, Darrell Wayne's brush with death didn't change his life or alter his behavior except to make him more determined to live as he pleased and cram as much in as he could. He was just past forty when mortality, disguised as a pretty woman with a jealous boyfriend, intervened in a bar brawl in St. John. The boyfriend took a beating before drawing a knife and Darrell Wayne was, Uncle Shad reported, dead before he hit the floor.

God has his eyes somehere else that night, Aunt Pearl said tearfully and my grandmother had the good grace to keep silent.