Stupidity on Steroids

You'd think that having lived to attain senior citizenship, I'd be less shocked and outraged by the behavior of the people I live among, as if age brought some kind of immunity from selfishness and stupidity.  You would, of course, be wrong.

Having persevered and plugged away at the government's healthcare website since its inception, a musician friend of mine triumphs and obtains coverage for himself and his wife.  After five years of being uninsured and still struggling desperately with the medical costs of a broken wrist, they can now afford to see a doctor. And for this, they are unfriended by fellow musicians who disapprove of the health care bill and disagree with their choice.  With friends like that, so the old saying goes, who needs enemies.  I'm happy to see that the vast majority of response posts are positive and that even the handful of negative ones are respectful - I put in my own congratulatory two cents and am pleased to do it - but it does set me to wondering about where this kind of hate and stupidity come from and how anyone in anything like their right mind could condemn and chastise another for a simple health care choice.  How did we get to a place where nothing, including the freedom to have health insurance, is free from the ugly taint of politics?   What kind of person unfriends a fellow musician over their opportunity to stay healthy and not go bankrupt?  What kind of sick mind accuses a friend of being a welfare-grubbing parasite?  It's stupidity on steroids.  And yet a part of me is not surprised.

Friendship is a delicate thing.  It requires patience and tolerance, loyalty and common ground.  It doesn't just survive if neglected and it's not genuine if it can be discarded over differing opinions.  It makes room for individuality and it understands pain and suffering.  It stands by you and wishes you good health.  Always and unconditionally.

Anything less is not worth keeping.

Six Apologies Later

It took two days to shake off the reprimand - it had been harsh, unexpected, unwarranted - and rather than protest or fight back or even defend myself I had simply shut down.  The injury was being scolded and unjustly punished.  The insult, which, to be clear, I added myself, was accepting it - seething with resentment - but accepting it. Where is the old woman who wears purple when I really need her, I wondered.

The doctor, of course, had spit his venom out and immediately moved on as soon as his temper tantrum was over.  Six apologies later, however, I was still feeling bitterly put upon and angry, a childhood holdover I can't seem to let go of.  Too often blamed for or accused of things I didn't do as a child, I came to be frightened of raised voices and I didn't suffer being punished at all well.  Why, I still wonder, is it necessary to demean and verbally abuse someone to make a point?  And the apologies....well, they were a little on the hollow side, all laced with what he considers his brand of Epsom Salts humor - no admission of wrongdoing, just a simple poultice to remove the sting of his tone of voice - as if to say, My only error was in expressing myself badly.
I can't help but wonder if he really believes words have so little power. 

My mother was fond of inflicting punishment physically - as long as my daddy wasn't home - but it was her words that cut the deepest and caused the most damage.  The bruises healed over, disappeared, or faded with time but the verbal abuse left permanent marks.  The scars of her jealousy and resentment and bullying never did.  Like the doctor, she rarely took the time to find out the truth or the facts, self righteously jumping in with both feet before she tested the water, condemning with an arrogant imperialism common in bad parents and bad employers.  Like the doctor, she wore us down with time and pressure and the inability to please. Unlike the doctor, she never lowered herself to an apology, false or otherwise.

So I take the verbal beating, trying to convince myself that all that really matters is that I know I'm innocent, telling myself that my knowing is enough.

 It isn't, but it's what I tell myself.

Later, when he realizes he was rude and unfair, hotheaded and just plain wrong - when he tries to make it up to me - I'll be casually gracious and tell him it doesn't matter.

I'll tell him I understand and have already forgotten it.   I don't and I haven't, but it's what I'll tell him.

No Refunds

Grab a plate and throw it on the ground.

Okay, done.

Did it break?

Yes.

Now say sorry to it.

Sorry.

Did it go back to the way it was before?

No.

Now do you understand?

No, you can't take back your words.  
Once you've said them, there's no refund.
 - Francine Chiar

Preaching to the Choir

The little dachshund rolls over on his back and grins at me while his tail thumps, thumps, thumps against the floor.  The motion and the noise prove too much for the kitten - she comes slinking around the corner, goes into pounce mode with her back end twitching and her eyes big as saucers - there's a second or two of pigeon cooing noises to serve as her advance warning system, then she springs like an eagle after an unsuspecting fish.  The  little dog gives a soft woof of surprise but on the whole is unfazed, idling giving a quick, little kick that dislodges her and then looking up at me for approval.

Who's a good boy, I say and his tail thumps a little harder, Who's a good boy to tolerate that rude little kitten.

I think of this later as I sit easily enough around a table at one of our upscale restaurants - without my camera and acutely aware of how unnatural it feels to have idle hands - to celebrate the birthday of a friend and fellow photographer.  I'm proud of myself for accepting the invitation and actually putting myself out in public minus a shield - still, I'm grateful for my unrestrained dinner companions and the fact that I'm called on to contribute very little - the conversation is loud, at times raucous with a great deal of unreserved laughter mixed in with the escargot and wine and pan sered trout.  I stay far longer than I'd intended and leave still thinking about how we interact with each other, how strangers become friends and friends become enemies and how obliging common ground can be.  To sit at a table of like minded people, artists all after a fashion and most certainly liberals and animal lovers, is like a warm welcome home.  It makes me feel a tiny bit hopeful, perhaps even a little less suffocated by the tightness of the Bible Belt in which I live.  It may be preaching to the choir but a little harmony never hurts.

Later that night as I crawl beneath the covers and navigate in and around a multitude of sleepy, warm, little bodies - none willing to give up an inch of space on the bed, can my little ones be republicans? - I congratulate myself for my evening out and drift off to sleep with a peaceful mind.

Lost & Found

Despite the astonishing level of ignorance on the social media site, I've never gotten into an active debate or really lost my temper over a posting until this:

Hey Dog Lovers,
The next time you see a dog running loose in the street, evaluate whether they look abused, lost, helpless etc.
My dog, who is a wild pack-dog, descended from the Native American dogs before us White folk came here, Carolina Dog, Dixie Dingo, has escaped from time to time....he always comes back! 
If they look well cared for, collared, good chance they are going to go home soon! If you pick them up, you are creating more problems!
Just last week when it was so cold, I arrived home at 10:00 after my restaurant job. I had an armful of stuff to take into the house...I open the door, Ellerbe takes off. A few minutes later, E returns and a car with a nice man and woman ask me if that's my dog! Yes!
They were gonna pick him up! 
I would have been really disturbed and worried about E had they succeeded! 
Don't be overly do-gooders!

I responded:

 Of course he "always comes back" until the day he doesn't. Dog running loose - whether needy or abused or not - are in peril and in violation of the leash law. Please don't blame or accuse people who pick up loose dogs and tell them they cause "more problems". Some of us don't like scraping dead animals off the streets.
I have a friend who makes banners.
Perhaps we could have her make signs for the non-needy, non-abused looking dogs that are running loose - "Please don't try to help me, I'm on my way home, and I'm immune to being hit by cars or getting lost". Owners could attach the signs to the collars and we'd never be accused of being "overly do gooders" or "creating more problems" than we solve by picking up a dog at large. I'll get right on that. Oh, and to be clear - if, God forbid, any of my dogs ever got out, they are NOT immune to traffic or getting lost so I'd pray that someone would be kind enough and caring enough to pick them up and bring them home. I wouldn't be offended.

I wonder if she'd be kind enough to tell me where she lives so we can watch for and not help her dog.  

And by the way - I'd have dropped that "armload of stuff" and gone after him in a heartbeat.  

It's not rocket science.
 

Friends for Now

Two hours into the whole remote access thing on my computer at work, I begin to see details of patients who aren't our's flash onto my screen - a very clear violation of privacy laws - and I suspect, an indication that the wretched non-English speaking wing nut in Pakistan now controlling my computer can't tell his ass from a hole in the ground.  The third hour proves me right when the connection is mysteriously broken without any repairs having been made.  Then with a kind of third world persistence, he calls back and asks that he be re-connected.

I am silent, trying to fashion a response that will convey my disgust and still qualify as "Playing Nice" as the doctor likes to tell me.  I fail.  

He asks again.

In your dreams, I say finally, I want an American supervisor.

He sighs.  Audibly.

Then stiffly attempts to talk me out of it.

Then finally - resentfully - agrees.

The American supervisor, grimly unapologetic and sounding as stressed as I'm feeling, finally comes onto the line but it takes another two hours and several re-starts before anything is resolved.  In the meantime, chaos reigns all around me and I almost miss the slickly inserted suggestion that the problems are not the fault of the software but somehow self-inflicted. 

That tears it - I'm headachy, out of patience, four hours behind, mad enough to spit, and I sense the old woman who wears purple tugging at my sleeve.  She gives me strength and I lay into the supervisor with everything I've thought about his overpriced, under-performing, useless, non-responsive trash software since day one.  And the morons who designed it.  And what's laughingly called tech support.  Especially tech support. But somehow, through it all, I remember where I am and my tone stays level and quiet.  When I'm done there is a moment or two of dead air and then to my amazement, he apologizes. Four times.  For the flaws in the system, for the time it has taken, for what he refers to as a less than perfect support staff and finally for his own lack of manners.  There's something suspiciously like sincerity in his words - I have so few work related non-scripted conversations that I barely recognize someone being genuine - but I'm positive they don't teach humility in his tech support classes and after my rant and raving, I'm suddenly at a loss for words. Not to worry though, he steps up to fill the empty space.

Friends? he asks almost shyly, Log off and then log in again and let's see.

I do as he tells me and the system responds - not with the "blazing speed" our new internet provider has promised but not like molasses uphill in a blizzard either - but rather somewhere on acceptable middle ground.
My southern self thinks it would be a good thing to apologize in return but my yankee self reminds me that I was justifiably provoked and overrules the inclination.

Friends, I agree cautiously but the old woman who wears purple gets the last word.  For now, she adds with a sly, satisfied smile.

The Polar Vortex

The serenade starts right after I crawl into bed and just begin to get warm, two or maybe more stray cats just under the front window, caterwauling as if it's the end of the world.  This operatic aria wakes and distresses the dogs who make a mad rush for the sunroom and begin to howl into the darkness in desperation.  The cats are not impressed and continue to sing - if this be song - and eventually I have to leave my warm bed and trudge to the front door to shoo them away.  I pray that they will find someplace reasonably warm and protected on this freezing night and I curse those who abandoned them. If anything in this life is true or certain, I hope that it's that there's a special place in hell for those sorry excuses for owners who neglect and abuse animals and children.  A thousand years of hellfire is far too mild and lenient a penalty.

Morning comes without much relief but the pipes haven't frozen and the car starts.  By noon, it's still bitter cold but not hurt-when-you-breathe, eyes-tearing-up, every-nose-hair-frozen kind of cold.  There's not much wind and the sun is really trying.  And there's nothing to shovel.  It could be worse, I remind myself, as I listen to a public radio story about a bike messenger.  In Milwaukee.  Where it's two below with 14 inches of snow on the ground and the wind chill is minus 40.  If you're a stray cat in Milwaukee, you're probably already dead.  It's warmer in Anchorage, Alaska then most of the midwest, the radio continues - something called a "polar vortex" is wildly out of control - and it's headed in this direction.  When I get home, I drag several of my dog and cat crates outside and fill them with old towels and blankets and some leftover straw and place them under the crepe myrtle, near to the heating unit and out of the wind.  I hope the strays will find and make use of them and with a little grace, survive the night.  Again, I think of hellfire.

Winter is a mean season, a killing season.  You save those you can, build shelters and pray for the rest.

Except for bike messengers who don't have the good sense to call in sick.

A House For One

The little house on Stafford Street, a clapboard two story with tiny, awkwardly designed spaces, sat on a small corner lot in a small New England town, a stone's throw from Main Street.  The halls were narrow, the staircase treacherously steep, and all the windows were painted shut.  It felt as if it had been built upward, squeezed from without like a tube of toothpaste so that moving from one corseted room to another required all your attention or you risked bruising an unsuspecting hip or elbow.  It was here in this house where I first began coming to terms with with my husband's addiction to alcohol as well as my part in it and it was no great surprise that it became, over time and struggle, a house for one.

Living through three rehabs and finally one long and painful separation gave me my first genuine taste of freedom and living alone.  After the initial shock and anger wore off and I'd overcome what I'd always seen as the impossible logistics of caring for multiple animals while working - it was just under 65 miles from Leicester to Framingham and even with the turnpike, an exhausting and tense drive to make twice a day - I discovered that single life wasn't the hell I'd imagined or feared.  The concept of coupling had been thoroughly driven into me by family and by society and I was an expert at keeping secrets so it took several years to decide to buck all the values I'd been taught.  I had, as it turned out, still several more years to go before I fully and honestly
comprehended what I was dealing with but here in this crooked little house, I took my first real steps - AlAnon three times a week, Aftercare at the hospital, counseling - all aimed at repairing my damaged mind and soul and learning to let my husband struggle on his own, without my well intentioned but sadly mistaken attempts to fix him.  I worked, I came home, I went to meetings, I read, I spoke out.  But most of all I discovered that a partner doesn't make you a person.  When push comes to shove, although we can surround ourselves with friends and sponsors and healthy people, we're still in it alone.  Someone may throw a lifeline, but we sink or swim by our own efforts.

The crooked little house became a metaphor for living with addiction - it was difficult to navigate, full of unexpected twists and turns, too small to be comfortable.  And I blamed it, conveniently choosing to forget that I had chosen it, not vice versa.  I would bump my head, trip on the stairs, or slam my knee and curse viciously when all I really had to do was watch where I was going and pay attention to the obstacles.  When the time came, it wasn't hard to leave behind but I missed the quiet, the solitary-ness, the hard won peace of mind.  I had no idea it would be another decade and two more states before I saved up the strength to try again.

Life is full of oddly built little houses, crooked journeys and peculiar people.  Take what you need and leave the rest.

The Ferryman

Well, I declare, my grandmother said with a sigh as she finished Aunt Pearl's latest letter, Linc Patterson passed away.  She folder the letter and looked thoughtful.  And here I was thinkin' he was too damn mean to die.

Lincoln the ferryman?  my daddy asked curiously, peering over the top pages of the morning newspaper, Old "Manners" Patterson?

One and the same, Nana said with a small smile in my direction, Ninety-six and never a kind word. I 'spect the devil'l have a time of it now.

When I was growing up, Linc Patterson had been a working ferryman for longer than most islanders had been alive.  A small man - wiry, compactly built and without a shred of humor - he had been known for being gruff,
tactiturn, impatient and volatile.  Especially with drivers who were new to the ferry, especially if happened to be low tide when the slip felt like a long and treacherous ski jump covered in slick seaweed.  The two twin paths of wire mesh leading down to the scow were supposed to provide traction but weren't much reassurance and Linc, standing with his his arms crossed defiantly, scowling and snarling, wasn't much of a guide.  On one particular morning, we were second in line behind a low slung station wagon with New Jersey plates, the back end weighted down with luggage and dog crates, kids hanging from every window and a pair of tourist parents looking nervous.  Nervous turned to outright apprehensive when they began the descent to the scow with Linc violently motioning them forward, shouting directions between curses and stamping his feet.

Gon' drag that back end, sure as shootin', Nana muttered, Ol' Linc gon' have a goddam heart attack.

Exactly as she predicted, the station wagon reached the end of the slip and the back end scraped with a tense shriek.  The driver froze and slammed on the brakes and the heavy car shimmied drunkenly, lurching toward the side of the slip.  Linc howled like a madman, snatched off his cap and threw it to the ground.

Goddam tourists!  he yelled, You there!  Straighten her out and get a move on!

The shocked driver just stared.

Linc retrieved his cap, clamped down on his pipe with a death grip and began walking up the slip toward the station wagon.  There was menace in every step and by the time he reached the car, things had gotten very quiet.   While the shaken driver rolled down his window and began chattering an apology, the ferryman stood impassively, thumbs hooked into his suspenders, eyes glittering.  Finally he took his old pipe out of his mouth and inelegantly spat.   Even from where we sat, second in line, we could see the tourist wife cringe.

Fine day for a crossin', Linc began amiably enough, But only if you kin git this goddam bucket of bolts on the goddam ferry.  

The driver continued to stare.

Now turn yer goddam wheels, the ferryman growled, straighten her out and git yer goddam sorry ass on the goddam ferry.  Or we'll push her over the goddam side!  You hear me, New Jersey?

Somehow this abuse got through and the driver did as he was told.  The station wagon lumbered onto the scow and was positioned - first on, last off - and Linc gave my grandmother a nod and an impatient wave.  The old Continental eased aboard with a grinding but familiar snarl as the back end scraped the slip and bounced free.
An oil truck and a tractor followed suit, each handing the ferryman the fare as they passed.  When he was sure there were no more passengers, Linc nodded to Cap and the little tug began to ease itself away.  The driver of the station wagon, still flustered but now on somewhat solid ground, emerged from his car and confronted the ferryman, wallet in hand.

What's the fare? he asked.

Linc considered the question.  Twenty dollars, he said finally.

The tourist took a step back.  The sign said a dollar for a passenger car! 

The ferryman narrowed his eyes and spat.  'Pears to me, he said finally, if you already know the fare then it's a waste of breath to be askin', you damn fool!

Now look here, fella, I don't know who you think you are....the tourist began but the words died when Linc leaned toward him.

I'm the one who got your sorry ass on this boat, he said quietly but clear as a bell, And I'm the one who can git you off.  That's who I am.  Fella.  Fare's a dollar.

The driver hesitated, then held out a dollar that Linc righteously snatched but it seemed that the driver wasn't done.  It's not right for you to talk to me like that, he said stubbornly.  The ferryman laughed grimly, wadded up the bill and jammed it into the pocket of his oilskins.

They pay me to git fancy city folk across this passage, he said shortly, Not fer my table manners!

And that was how, on a bright blue summer morning between Tiverton and East Ferry, Linc Patterson earned his nickname.  And kept it until the day he died.





  

The Subdued Side of Sixty

It's a cold and cloudy New Year's Eve day.  Rather than join in at one of the local hot spots, I opt for a covered dish supper at the local coffee shop where the celebration will be low key and non-alcoholic and the music will be gentle.  Here on the subdued side of 60, there's no need for bright lights and noisemakers to welcome in a new year - I'm content to have it slip in while I'm sleeping.

I'm not much for resolutions either.  I can't recall a single one that I made and kept and the whole process has begun to seem silly.  I can find enough guilt in just living one day to the next, no need to formalize it.

And not to put too fine a point on it, but since I don't drink and don't care to spend intimate time with those who do, drunkenness doesn't have much to recommend it.

All in all, it's pretty much just another day on the calendar only with fireworks.  Waiting for the dogs to make their last patrol of the night, I stand shivering on the back deck and watch the sky light up with reds and blues and whites and greens.  The colors explode against a background of stars.

The sun comes out the first day of the new year, a good sign, I tell myself even though it's still bitterly cold.
Here we go, 2014.  Behave yourself.  Keep your head down and your eyes on the road.

Retribution

Round One.
From out of nowhere, the kitten rounds the corner at full tilt.  She hasn't counted upon the presence of one of the black cats, however, and she skids to a surprised stop right in front of him, rears up on her short back legs and waves her front paws in a kitten karate pose.  Unamused, the older cat sends her reeling with one bored swipe and returns to his grooming.  Undeterred, she gives an offended squeak, picks herself up and looks around for a secondary target. 

Round Two.
She settles on the passing tabby, dignified and less good natured, ignores the warning glare and launches herself into disaster.  The tabby hisses violently and there is a brief but still ear splitting scuffle before the black dog intervenes and sends both parties skittering in opposite directions.  The dog gives me her Well, someone has to be in charge look then stretches out in the doorway, head on her paws and eyes bright and alert.  She watches, she listens, she waits.  With half her energy, I think idly, I could remake the world.

Round Three.

It starts casually.  On her way to the kitchen, the kitten strolls by the other black cat who is on his way to another room.  They pass each other like ships in the night but as soon as his back is turned, she whips around and commences a low to the ground, silent stalk.  I don't know precisely what gives her away but the black cat somehow senses a shadow on his trail and stops suddenly, looks over his shoulder at the creeping menace and emits a low frequency growl.  The kitten freezes, one paw in mid-air as if pointing like a water dog - there's a second or two of absolute silence - then with a ferocious squeak, she leaps.  With one carefully timed and well aimed swat, the black cat sends her sprawling.

Round Four.
The tuxedo cat, a solid mass of feline with abs of steel and the soul of a barncat, is half asleep on the couch when the kitten begins her approach. She's stealthy as...well, as a cat...moving slowly and deliberately, never taking her eyes off her target, focusing in like a scud missile.  She scales the couch almost soundlessly and then pretends not to see the older cat.  Tails twitch with studied indifference, the tuxedo boy yawns.  For a moment I think it may come to nothing then they are abruptly nose to nose and neck in neck.  They tumble off the couch with a thud and begin to wrestle around on the floor, all tails and claws and teeth but all without a sound.  Not wanting to be left out, the small brown dog and the little dachshund decide to join this barroom like brawl and the tuxedo cat wisely withdraws, leaving only the kitten to play the prize in what turns into an enthusiastic tug of war.

Round Five turns out to be retribution.

  

Miracles

By dawn, the sky has turned the color of carbon paper.  I can hear thunder in the distance and the rain is coming down in sheets.  A dreary and dismal day, I think, already regretting last night's decision to put off the grocery store til today and wishing I'd had the good sense to have checked the forecast before turning in.  The downpour is supposed to last the entire day - what a small sacrifice it'd have been to shop last night - but what's done is done, no sense crying over spilled milk.

With Christmas just a day away, I inevitably start thinking about family, friends, lovers, the complete futility of regrets - can anything possibly be more useless than hindsight - and gratitude.  I wonder, just a little, about all the people who have come and gone in my life, where they are, how they are, how they're planning to spend the holidays.  Places and faces I haven't seen in decades come to mind and it strikes me how quickly and thoroughly we forget people and things when they're over.  We tame the most devastating and life altering events with time.  We recover from the worst setbacks and muddle through the hardest of losses.  We get over it or go through it and come out reasonably intact.  Even with all the empty spaces in our lives, what miracles we all are.

The drama of being young and worrying about what I would and wouldn't survive is behind me these days.  I loved riding the roller coaster until I didn't.  Now when I look back, I'm struck by how silly most of it was, how theatrical and melodramatic I made it.  Forlorn as it seemed then, I don't know a single soul who died of a broken heart even though at the time I was fairly convinced I would never love again, that all my dreams died with every breakup.  Age and experience bring a certain resolution, a calmness, a perspective that isn't possible when you're young and wild with hormones and imagination.  Real pain, real heartache, real tragedy don't waste themselves on foolish young girls with all their lives ahead of them.  We learn to walk as infants, then we re-learn as adults - one foot in front of the other 'til we get someplace real.

Still, the faces are clear, unlined and always young, just as we were then.  No gray hair, no frown lines, no chubby waistlines or liver spotted hands.  There was magic in being young and passionately in love but it wouldn't have done for every day.  At that pace, we'd never have seen thirty.

Christmas Eve day passes slowly and leisurely - I know the old black and white holiday movies by heart and am content to listen to them without actually having to watch - so the animals and I rarely stir from the bed.  It's our own tradition and it turns out to be a surprisingly peaceful one.   I do venture out but only to one of the numerous casinos - what amazing places these gambling halls are, no night or or day, never closing or even slowing down never mind acknowledging such a thing as Christmas - for a little sweet harmony from one of my favorite musical groups.  I visit with a few friends, take a few pictures, and leave early.

The doctor offers me a place at his Christmas table, as do a number of others who worry about people like me who are what they consider alone during the holidays.  I smile and decline as I always do, not able to imagine anything I'd rather do less but not willing to say so.  It's a kind gesture and a sincere one and while I appreciate the generosity of spirit, I'm not willing to give up a single day of being alone.  It's not so much bad memories of holidays that make me retreat - not even bad memories of family, come to think of it, I get a little further past them with each passing year - there's just no other place where I'm as comfortable or content and no other place where I have better company.

So another Christmas will come and go, quietly and blessedly uneventfully.  I look back with gratitude, a tiny bit of sorrow, and only a very small sense of loss because family - whether two or four footed - is what we make it.

Aprons & Baked Apples

Domesticity and I parted ways decades ago - it went its way and I went mine and we haven't crossed paths since - but every now and again, I think of it with a little fondness.  Well....almost.

Tradition decreed marriage and family for a girl child.  I knew this from an early age but while I thought marriage might be acceptable, I had no illusions about children - I knew as surely as I knew anything that I didn't want them - the idea of childbirth was bad enough but the prospect of a lifetime of responsibility and nurturing was paralyzing.  I refused to even consider the thought of such a burden and though I sometimes wondered if there was some integral missing motherhood link in my genetic makeup, I had no regrets.  I felt the same about cooking and sewing, coffee klatches and dinner parties and cleaning house in a cute little number with heels and hose and pearls.  Self sacrifice just wasn't my strong suit.

Junior high school did not share this attitude, however, and come 7th grade I was forced into a home economics class - one year of learning to make a baked apple, one year of learning to make an apron.  The oven and the sewing machine became my instant enemies and the class only reinforced my conviction that women were silly, trivial creatures with the instincts of sheep.  My repeated requests to transfer to the shop class were denied with appalled looks and while the apple turned out to be passable enough, on the last day of school I tossed the apron into the first trash can I came to.  Oddly enough I still remember it - red and gray, the school colors - with trimmed pockets and ribbon edging.

The inevitable results of my disdain for the domestic life - being unable to sew on a button, barely able to boil water - don't trouble me all that much.  The ancient oven in the kitchen gave up the ghost months ago and I didn't see the point in having it repaired or replaced.  Any matched pieces of leftover revere ware are purely accidental.  I doubt I could put together a full place setting using the same silverware and there's a drawer in the dining room filled with table linens, price tags still attached.  It just goes to show how we change, how the things that are important to us change, how we trick ourselves with possessions and material things.  I console myself with a simple fact - if I'd had children, they might be as dust covered and neglected and useless as aprons and baked apples.  Unless the old cycle of life thing kicked in and then they might very well have become the height of domestic engineers.  I've often thought that somehow children grow up hungry for what they don't have - raised in a rigid religious home, they become devoted atheists, raised to be neat freaks, they celebrate disorder - until their children come along and the whole process reverses itself.

Who can tell where aprons and baked apples will lead. 

Ave Maria

After several days of freezing cold and rain, the sun emerges.  There's nothing tentative or half hearted about it, it streams full strength through the windows and the chill I feared might last for months finally, although very reluctantly, is forced to give a little ground.  I am grateful but still cautious as I pack my camera gear - it is still December after all - and sunlight can be a deceptive old dog, slow to move, a little tired, and not as fierce as it once was.  Much like me, I think, and sling my bag over my shoulder.

As a venue, the small church across the river is nearly perfect for a classical guitarist on a Sunday afternoon.
Although I've listened to him for years, this is my first time to actually see him perform and I'm delighted to find he looks exactly the way he sounds on the radio - a small man, with a beard, mustache, and wavy silver hair that looks almost feminine - he's dressed in an elegant tux and perched comfortably on a raised platform at the front of the sanctuary.  He's playing, very softly but intently, as the audience begins to file in and take their seats.  Sunlight filters in through the stain glass windows and the crowd is instinctively hushed.  I'm acutely aware of how loud the sound of my shutter seems to be - the background quiet is almost unnerving - and I say a small prayer that I'm not a distraction.  As if he senses my thoughts, he looks at me and smiles and the whole room seems to light up.  Halfway through the concert, I realize that he's so focused, so one with the music, that he barely knows I'm there although I'm less sure of the rest of the audience.  I try to time my shots to coincide with the applause but I've never shot in such complete and stunning silence and I feel awkward. No one coughs or clears their throats, there's no hum of an air conditioner, no outside or background noise at all.
It's a startling and slightly eerie experience and I can only hope the pictures will be worth it.

Most musicians I know have some kind of empathy with their instruments - many actually name them - but I can't remember a single one who seemed so in tune.  I watch his fingers fly over the frets with a whispery lightness, head bent and eyes closed as he begins "Ave Maria".  There is an exquisite delicacy to his touch and without realizing it I lower my camera and let it rest in my lap.  After a moment or two, I find myself in tears, moved by the sheer and astonishing beauty of Shubert and the man who plays it so lovingly.

There aren't that many perfect moments in life but this is one.

War Stories

Once a month or so during the summers on the island, Uncle Sherry came to visit and pass the time.   Despite one conspicuously empty sleeve, he stood tall and straight and almost always arrived with a burlap bag slung over his other shoulder - usually scallops fresh from the docks at Digby, sometimes lobsters - and one memorable morning in August, an honest to God swordfish.

If you're gon' ask a pretty woman to cook for you, he would tell my grandmother with a broad wink, Then it's best to bring provisions!

Sherry, you ol' one armed bandit! she would exclaim, I'd about given you up for lost...carry your ragged ass into this house this minute!

By then the dogs had heard his voice and stormed the back door in a frenzy - he always carried rib bones in the pocket of his overcoat - and they nearly knocked him down in their excitement.  My daddy was right behind them, shirtless and with shaving lather still on his face.

Sherry! he shouted, You old horse thief!  What took you so long!

They had grown up together, so Nana said, boyhood friends who had joined the Canadian Armed Forces and served together in France along with my Uncle Vern.  The war had not been kind, certainly not what they'd expected and only my daddy came home intact - Uncle Vern had lost a leg to a landmine and Sherry's arm had been blown off my a grenade - but it had also cemented their friendship.  After an overnight stay, they would be off to the Valley for a daytrip to see other old friends - the big reunion was held in the fall but these three gathered each summer - for old times sake, my daddy said, to reminisce, drink bourbon and tell not so gently edited war stories.  It was fascinating to hear and see them slip so easily into the past with tales of French barmaids and foxholes and lazy afternoons in sidewalk cafes.  And while there was always a drink to the ones who didn't come home, there were no stories of landmines or grenades or amputated limbs.  To hear them tell it, France had been one long, glorious adventure of wine, women, song and patriotism.

My mother, horrified that no one would pretend not to notice Sherry's empty sleeve and more than a little jealous of the bonds that held the men together, made herself scarce for these small reunions.   

We managed without her.  

Convinced that a one armed man could hardly fend for himself, Nana sent Sherry off the following morning with a veritable trunk full of provisions - quarts of chowder, loaves of bread tightly sealed in saran wrap, fried chicken and spare ribs, a basket of sweet corn - he protested but was no match for my iron-willed, grey haired grandmother. 

Wars and families make strange bedfellows.

Too Cold To Snow

The morning is dim and cloudy gray - there was a brief but chilling smattering of snow during the night - and I wake thinking that my decision to move south was sound enough but incomplete.  Looking out at the frozen crepe myrtle and frost covered grass, I wonder if I shouldn't have gone a little further.  It's a too cold to snow kind of morning, as my daddy might've said - every breath sends a wave of arctic chill into my lungs and the dogs waste no time being curious, they're out and back in in a matter of seconds.  The small brown dog trembles with cold and rushes for the bedroom, not even waiting for the accustomed biscuit, while the other two - bigger and made of sterner stuff - trot hastily inside and settle by heating vents.  It's tricky maintaining your dignity while freezing.

Too cold to snow, I think dismally, how does that even make sense?

I can see my daddy - practically mummified in layers - thermal socks and long underwear, cable knit sweaters and a snug wool cap pulled over his ears, bright mittens and an oversized scarf.  He would pull a chair close to the fire and hunker down beneath multiple blankets while my mother alternately laughed and scolded.  It seemed as if all their differences could be summed up according to the thermostat - he was always too cold and she was always too hot - they never agreed on what the temperature should be and were only rarely able to reach a compromise.  Even now it's hard to imagine a more constant or enduring conflict.   

In his younger days, my daddy was up after a blizzard, whistling and shoveling in the pre-dawn hours.  He would methodically clear the front steps, then the walk, the sidewalk, and finally the driveway.  Digging out the car was cold, cruel work and for countless winters he did it alone until he was finally persuaded that there was wisdom and efficiency in a gas powered snow blower.  We trudged to Sears and Roebuck in Porter Square in the midst of an early and reasonably mild storm and purchased a bright, shiny red Kenmore blower and a plastic gas container.   By the time we were up the following morning, the entire yard had been cleared and the freshly made snowdifts were hip-high.  My daddy, looking very much like Nanook of the North, was standing on the sidewalk, chatting easily with the neighbors and triumphantly spreading salt and de-icer like birdseed.  He never picked up another snow shovel.

Here in the south, the idea of a snow shovel is fortunately laughable but the cold still comes.  I leave the house and an intake of freezing air settles in my nose, throat, and lungs.  My gloved fingers tingle and there's always that shining moment of terror when I wonder if the car will start and if the sun will ever shine again.  It may be too cold to snow, but it's cold enough for me and mine.

Spirits of the Fire

The day before Thanksgiving is bitterly cold and still damp from the last few days of winter rain.  It's the kind of weather that creeps undetected into your bones and settles like wet dirt - clingy and unseen, impossible to shake off - it calls up memories of New England during the nasty season.  You can't bundle up enough to ward it off and in my house I can feel it, slithering under door frames and around the window sills, inching its way down from the attic and seeping up from beneath the floors.  It penetrates the walls of this little hundred year old house and there's no place to hide unless I stay in bed - an obvious impracticality - or turn the heat up to 80 - an obvious extravagance - so I slip into my thermals and pull on thick socks, layer to the point of immobility and then crawl under a blanket.  The small brown dog gives me a pleading look and I leave my little nest to find her a sweater then together we burrow back in.

We shall stay here 'til spring, I tell her and she looks at me as if it's my fault.  The little dachshund crawls up next to her and arranges his small body to shield her and share his warmth.  Soon the couch is so full of animals that I can barely move, even the kitten finds a niche and curls up into a tight ball on my shoulder. Never one to follow the crowd, the black dog, thick coated and tough as old boots, takes a chair across from the couch and assumes a posture of watchfulness.  She lays her head on her paws, listening for any sound from inside or out, always on the edge of ready-set-go and untroubled by the cold.  There are times I envy her.

This is fireplace weather, I think, remembering New England.  Most everyone had one with a brick hearth and a painted mantle - a fire was a welcoming sight to come to on those cold winter evenings - the dogs would sigh and stretch out before it and Nana would make hot chocolate just before bedtime.  She served it in tiny white china cups, sweet and frothy with whipped cream and sometimes my daddy would help us toast marshmallows on skinny green sticks.  The flames would crackle in a blaze of color - red, blue, and yellow incandescence against the sooty bricks - sometimes they would snap like sharp twigs and send showers of bright, hot sparks up the chimney.  The sweet, smoky smell filled the room and when there were only embers and ashes left, the glow was hypnotizing.  I imagined I could see shapes and faces as the last logs burned down, eyes peered back at me and I thought of wolves and owls, vampires and bloodless, white-faced night creatures out of Grimm's Fairy Tales.  Spirits of the fire, come to purify and cleanse and make everything new again.  Some nights they even followed me up the stairs and made their way into my dreams where my imagination never did seem to call forth sweet spirits.  It seemed to prefer the darker, horror-tinged apparitions, usually there to do do my bidding but sometimes turning on me with bloody fangs and talon-like nails.  Every branch scratching on my window, every howl of winter wind, every flicker of wicked flame seemed to call me - I dared not think to what purpose - some dreams are like a runaway team of horses, too powerful to stop, too wild to be reined in, better to go along for the ride and hope you aren't rudely thrown off.

I still have a fireplace - gas fueled with sad, sorry imitation logs, not much to inspire the imagination and not meant to - it's efficient and quietly contained, its flames hiss steadily but it offers no magic and makes no memories.

How dull it is to be grown up.










  

Demon Music

Family holidays being my least favorite days of the year, I've created my own personal tradition - stay in bed, eat only things that are bad for me, and do nothing that requires showering or clean clothes - I find it gets me through the day nicely.  And so another Thanksgiving Day passes.

Families.  All dysfunctional in their own way - some simply quirky, others shadowy and possibly sinister, and some outright dangerous - odd little collections of still odder people created by chance and genetics and held together by necessity, habit, common needs.  Add drugs to the mix and they become held together by secrets and sickness and scores to settle.  Addiction is a contagious disease and no one in an affected family is spared.  Over time they learn coping skills - enabling, withdrawing, absence - and of course, the Big Kahuna, denial.  The lucky ones take flight and escape, albeit carrying the infection and damaged if unaware.  They won't understand why they don't trust people, why relationships are rocky to the point of failure, why they prefer a solitary life, why they cringe at a raised voice or expect a raised hand.  They won't comprehend their own free-floating anger or lack of confidence and they won't recognize truth when it's told to them.  Pleasing others will be more essential than pleasing themselves even though they know they have no real chance of measuring up.  They'll be controllers, desperate to maintain order on their own terms, obsessively focused on routine and familiar territory.  In their hearts they know that change is just a code word for chaos.

All things considered, it's a hard way to live, although often preferable to confronting the demons face to face and risk discovering that we've had a hand in their maturity and staying power.

It's good to remember that no one sets out to become an alcoholic or a junkie.  No one sets out to marry one either.

 We may not recognize it, but sickness calls to sickness and we're mostly always at home.

So I'm wary about family celebrations, even in the most seemingly healthy and happy homes.  Demons live in the undercurrents, in the things that aren't always seen and aren't always spoken, the things that we pretend aren't there.  They play their sweetest music when you're not listening.

Normal, as folksinger and songwriter Bernice Lewis penned, is just a setting on the washing machine.   

Hardly Ever an Unkind Word

At the time I didn't know who she was - an old woman bundled up in a heavy coat, sitting on a blanket in a neighborhood park on a cold mid-November day, listening to music.  I was up and moving partly to capture the faces in the crowd, partly to keep warm and it was her face that drew me - her life was written on it and she'd clearly done some hard traveling - the deeply etched lines and wrinkles and the small signs of skin cancer gave it away.  When I pointed my camera at her, she instinctively tilted her head and gave me a hint of a smile, but her eyes flashed as if they were dancing.  I snapped the shutter, having no idea how important this single photo would be be one day, until yesterday when I saw that she'd died.  At 76, she'd earned her rest.

She'd also earned her way.  She'd raised one son and then two grandchildren, all musicians, on something like $800 a month for years, no small thing.  She'd seen her family through all the hard times and heartache, often their only means of transportation to and from various venues.  She'd worked the door, helped carry gear, saw them safely home.  And nobody could've been more encouraging or supportive of their music, even when the music itself strayed outside the lines.  She'd fed and sheltered them through it all with very little thought of herself and hardly ever an unkind word.  She was very good at putting herself in the shoes of another, thought it was important not to judge or criticize, especially if about someone else's dreams.  Death has a way of making us look back, often adding a soft focus to what we see and remember, a small and forgivable bit of editing in most cases but sometimes it isn't necessary - sometimes the memories are all too adequate and need no adornments, no extra kindness.

I can't credit the following quote but I doubt I've ever read truer words.

Grief never ends.
But it changes.
It's a passage, not a place to stay.
Grief is not a sign of weakness nor a lack of faith.
It's the price of love.

And That's What It's All About

It was midway through a Monday morning from hell when the credit card machine decided to dig in its heels and fail halfway through a transaction.  The display abruptly went wild for a few seconds, lights flashed and warning tones chirped, then it went dark.  Three 'phone lines were simultaneously ringing, the doctor was hovering over my shoulder demanding to know if the printer repairman had called, there was a line at the glass window and another at the check out counter and not a nurse in sight.  I felt like a firework in mid explosion.

A young-ish sounding and calm-voiced tech support guy named John took my call, first inquiring after my health - I was in no mood to chit chat and made that clear - he immediately apologized, asked a few routine questions and then put me on hold.  When he came back, he warned me that it was a complicated fix but that he'd walk me through it.  I growled.

Are you ready? he asked, There's a lot of steps so be sure you have room.

Yes! I snapped, too angry and impatient to wonder what the hell room had to do with it.

Ok, he said with that irritating level-headedness, Put your left foot in.

My hand froze above the screen.  

What??  I demanded incredulously.

Put your left foot in, he repeated serenely, Then put your left foot out.

Certain I'd crossed into The Twilight Zone, I stood there with my hand poised over the LED and tried to make sense of what I was hearing.

Now, he continued placidly, Hit enter and then punch 9.

Instantly the screen lit up correctly.  

That's it???  I couldn't believe it.

That's it, he assured me and I could've sworn he laughed, But I thought you needed to smile.

John....I kept my tone even, couldn't have been able to stay mad if I'd tried,  You know, nobody likes a wise ass merchant services guy.

Then he did laugh and so did I.  Because sometimes the Hokey Pokey really is what it's all about.

And that's a true story.