Keep Out

From where I'm sitting and waiting for the light to change, I can only see parts of the old house on the corner. It looks empty and exhausted, like a derelict who has made a home on the wrong side of the railroad tracks.

The first story is barely visible for the un-mowed, un-watered grass and shrubs. A dozen or so elephant ears, as brownish and dispirited as the cracked and tired looking planters that hold them, are littered across the veranda. Weeds grow in and around the windows, advancing and encroaching on the second story with the patience of Job. Some have already met the low hanging tree limbs and embraced them, they wave gently and brush up against the discolored stucco walls and precariously attached shutters. The tiled roof is faded and peeling under a thick blanket of pinestraw and a lone squirrel perches on a gutter, bright eyed, alert, tail swishing. He seems to be waiting and watching, for what I can't imagine. The only thing missing is the half dozen loud, territorial and neglected dogs who once lived in the yard of this old relic and routinely terrorized delivery people, mail carriers and innocent passersby. After years of abuse, their predicament finally generated enough complaints that a rescue stepped in and convinced the owners to surrender them. No one appears willing to do the same for the old house and it fairly reeks of past glory and sadness.

I never heard what happened to the occupants and sometimes I wonder if they're still there. I pass the place several times a day, every day, and have never seen a single sign of life, not so much as a curtain has ever moved or a light been turned on. The three sides of iron fencing surrounding the property, even when the dogs were there, have always been shut and locked. All in all, everything about this old house says Keep Out but whether it's from misery and mean spiritedness or just a tragic blend of old age and loneliness, I'll probably never know.

When the light turns green, I turn down the side street and see that here the weeds have taken over even more forcefully.  Behind the gates of the driveway, I can see a pile of trash, randomly scattered by the wind and beginning to draw flies.  The rest of the backyard is pretty much a debris field of useless, rusted appliances stacked amid moldy plastic containers and the feeling of decay is palpable.  A couple of ragged and forlorn looking stray cats keep watch from the back steps and I can smell the stench of ammonia and rotting food.  I wonder that the neighbors haven't called the property standards board or the health department.

I drive on, leaving the old house in my rear view mirror until it disappears.

Inward & Upward

“You know,” my aftercare counselor says casually, “Sobriety changes things. And people. It's possible that you might not like who he becomes if he gets sober.”

“I don't think that's a bridge that's ever going to need crossing,” I tell him shortly.

Calvin shrugs and reminds me that when there's life, there's hope.

“This is his 4^th rehab, Cal,” I remind him, “I'm fresh out.”

He glances at the file, flips a page or two, frowns. Even with the windows opened, it's stuffy in the small office and the street noises are annoying. Everything annoys me these days, I think dismally, everything seems to be getting between me and peace of mind. This recovery thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.

“How long has been out,” Calvin asks, “Is he going to meetings?”

“Two weeks,” I say and pause to consider the second question. What I suspect, what I know, and what I can prove are all distinctly different things. “He says he is,” I say finally.

“You don't believe him?” my counselor persists.

Cal has kind eyes and he cares deeply about his clients and their troubled lives but he's not much for finesse. He likes to remind me that it's not my job to cure the man I married, that it's not within my control to change him, that caretaking has it's downside and it can be perilously close to enabling. I still remember our first session and how he listened to me cry and moan about living with a drunk, how long suffering and under-appreciated I felt, how I was at my wits end, how nothing I tried was working. His answer was to hand me a box of kleenex and ask where had I tied my white horse. The suggestion that I might be in the wrong had offended me then and now I was realizing that the old feelings of defeat, betrayal, and anger were back with a vengeance.

“No,” I confess, “Not for a second.”

He sighs, gives me his best professionally resigned look, but at least has the grace not to tell me that he warned me. Not that I needed warning, I think bitterly, after the third failed rehab, I'd learned the drill.

“You think he's still drinking,” he says flatly.

“I do,” I say tiredly, “And lying about it. Every day. Just like he always has.”

Saying it outloud ignites something in me and I can feel acid knots of rage beginning a slow crawl up my throat. I have an urge - a need - to scream, to fight, to break something or hurt someone. I swallow hard and beat back the desire to give way to helplessness and and the hysteria that will inevitably follow. I can't think of how to tell Calvin that I don't want to do this anymore, that I'm tired and defeated, worn out and worn down. I feel broken beyond repair and find myself wishing my husband dead.

How Calvin sees through this wall of self pity and stagnation is a mystery.

“Jeee-sus!” he says mildly, “That's pretty good. No Sarah Bernardt, but pretty good. Now, how about we skip the histrionics and self-pity and get back to basics. What are you doing about you?”

“You self righteous son of a bitch!” I snap, “Save your know-it-all, holier than thou lectures for the drunks upstairs! I don't need them!”

“No?” he snaps right back, “Because you're doing such a bang up job on your own? Or because you've gotten to like drowning in your own misery and playing the misunderstood heroine? You came to me for help, for Christ's sake, either take it or don't, but spare me the poor, pitiful me act! I don't need another victim! I've got a whole floor of them upstairs! Now for the last time,

what are you doing to help you?”

Every word he'd said was accurate and the urge to claw his eyes out fades. I sit back down and concentrate on breathing until I feel calm and ashamed enough to apologize. He waves it away and offers one of his own.

“This shit is hard,” he tells me.

“On all of us,” I agree.

Secrets of Shingle Creek

Shingle Creek Road was a place everyone knew of, very few talked about, and absolutely no one would ever admit to visiting. You'd find no gaily strung paper lanterns here, no sweet dance band music or pastel girls in taffeta dresses and silver slippers. Shingle Creek was a low place, a dark place, and its patrons had no regard for the outside world or its rules. They came in search of drugs and rotgut whiskey, cards and dice and back rooms with blacked out windows and used up women. No moonlight penetrated through the thick, low hanging trees and even the law left it alone. Any secrets Shingle Creek kept, it kept to itself.

But for the fact that our newest foster dog, a young and rambunctious Golden Retriever with an adventurous spirit had jumped the back fence and taken off like a shot after a trespassing deer, I'd never have found it at all. After a half hour of crashing and hacking my way through the dense woods, I was scratched, bleeding and bad tempered when I finally came upon the dog, hackles raised and barking non-stop at the ruined remains of what looked to be an abandoned farmhouse.

In the fading daylight, it wasn't much, just a deserted, mostly falling down wreck of a building, rotting in some places, fire damaged in others. Even so, there was something about it, some sense of foreboding. It felt vaguely threatening and I had an idea the dog sensed it as well. He kept to the edge of the clearing, defiantly growling, and when I took a tentative step forward, he snatched firmly at the hem of my blue jeans and tugged.

“Okay, already,” I told him a little impatiently, “You don't have to get rude about it.”

He let go - reluctantly - but then began anxiously pacing back and forth, his eyes darting between me and the old house, alternately whining and barking and looking more and more distressed. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly prickle and for a second or two, had the ridiculous notion that I was being watched.

“Damn fool dog,” I muttered, “Now you're giving me the creeps. C'mon, let's get out of here.”

As I reached to clip the lead to his collar, he bared his teeth and lunged past me, spinning me around with a sideswipe to the hip that unexpectedly knocked me to my knees. He let out with a long and eerily un-doglike howl and that's when I heard the voice, gravely and roughish but not menacing. At least, not much.

“This here's private property, girlie,” it said, “And trespassin's a good way to get yourself shot.”

I turned to see a man in overalls and work boots with a pistol strapped to his hip and a beer bottle in one hand, leaning casually against the door jamb. He tipped his cap and nodded and I felt a shiver - a minor one, to be sure, because the dog, now quiet, was sitting calmly at his feet - run up my spine. I sensed sterness but no menace.

“Dog ran off,” I offered truthfully, “I just followed him.”

“Figured,” he said, “But you'll be wantin' to head back now. We ain't much for company.” He shifted his weight and gestured with the beer bottle toward the remnants of a path I hadn't noticed. “Ain't much, but after awhile it passes for a road. Be some longer but easier'n through the woods. It'll take you out to the main highway.”

I managed to thank him and when I slapped my thigh, the dog trotted obediently to my side and we started for the rutted path.

“And girlie,” I heard from behind me, “I ain't expectin' to see you here again. You'll be wantin' to forget about bein' here in the altogether. Shingle Creek ain't no place for the likes of you or the dog. We clear?”

“As glass!” I called over my shoulder but the screen door had already slammed shut and the porch was empty and there was no one to hear.

The overgrown, rutted path did indeed turn into something that passed for a road but it took the better part of an hour before we reached the highway and I couldn't imagine trying to drive it after dark. On foot and whiskey'd up it seemed even less probable. It felt as if the woods might reach out and grab any unsuspecting passerby and I was foolishly glad for the company of the dog.

I took the Shingle Creek man's advice and never did tell anyone about that afternoon but I often thought about it and wondered how much of what the rumor mill ground out was fiction and how much might be reality.  A couple of winters later, I read about a couple of fishermen finding a body in Darkwater Lake, just a few miles from that lonely clearing where the dog and I had wound up.  There was a pistol strapped to his thigh, a pair of dice in a velvet pouch in his hip pocket and a moldy wad of cash tucked under his belt but no wallet or id.  He'd been badly beaten and then shot, the paper reported, and anyone with any information was asked to get in touch with the county sheriff's office.  After that, I wondered a whole lot less.

The Bridge Game

Reconcile Smith, as confirmed a bachelor as the island had ever had seen, and Mae Louise Nickerson, an unmarried lady and Uncle Shad's oldest girl, began courting in 1959. He was 34 and she had just turned a discreet and mostly uncelebrated 32. The courtship lasted for 24 years.

“I declare,” my grandmother remarked one afternoon at the weekly bridge game, “I don't see why she don't jist marry that man. They's been keepin' company since 'fore hens had feathers and they ain't getting' no younger. Two spades.”

“It's geographic,” Aunt Pearl said mildly, “Two hearts.”

“Ayuh,” Miz Clara nodded, “Ol' Rec's right partial to livin' in that old shack in the woods and Mae Louise don't like the idea of not livin' on the square. Three diamonds.”

“Pass,” Aunt Vi ventured timidly and all three women glared at her. “I heard tell he didn't ask her for the first 10 years,” she added with a shy kind of shrug and my grandmother gave her a skeptical look.

“Viola,” she said sharply, “Pass? Again?” But then she saw my delicate Aunt Vi - who had never wanted to learn bridge in the first place but was too fainthearted to say so - was about to cry and she softened and patted her hand lightly. “Never mind, dear, we'll manage,” she sighed, “I didn't mean to scold.” Vi brightened at once and the conversation returned to Reconcile and Mae Louise.

“Folks git set in their ways,” Aunt Pearl suggested, “A body gits used to livin' alone.”

“I 'spect so,” Miz Clara said, “Cain't be easy to make room for somebody else after more'n 50 years. Likely folks just git in each other's way.”

“Bein' married ain't no Sunday stroll,” my grandmother admitted as she scooped up the last trick with a victorious flourish. I suspected she was thinking of her own loutish, thug of a husband, “Mebbe they's better off.”

“Mebbe so,” Aunt Vi said, “But it be fearful to think so.”

Clara, the only one at the table still single and clearly irritated, lowered her bifocals and looked directly at each woman in turn. “This be one damn fool conversation for three married women to be havin,” she said snappishly, “It ain't nobody's business whether Mae Louise marries Reconcile or not and it don't matter how long it takes if'n she does or doesn't! Ain't a single one of you know the first thing about being an old maid spinster and I reckon we'd all be better off if folks jist tended their own gardens and their own bridge games!”

Nana laughed first although she tried mightily not to and soon Pearl and Vi joined in. All three women rocked in their seats and Clara really didn't have much choice. She blushed as red as a beet from Lily Small's vegetable patch and finally managed to mutter an apology. The bridge game was called on account of foolishness and the four old friends retired to the sunporch to eat hot buttered scones and drink iced tea laced liberally with gin.

To the delight of the entire village, Mae Louise Nickerson and Reconcile Smith married the following summer and set up housekeeping in a small cottage on a dirt road that overlooked the ocean. It was close enough to the square and far enough removed from the village that it satisfied them both and the last time I was home, they were still there, happily raising chickens for him and tea roses for her.

The Thank You Note

One fine summer afternoon while Nana was making a cream sauce for the haddock filets that had mysteriously appeared on the back porch that morning, there was a knock on the screen door.

“It's open!” she called distractedly.

“Afternoon, Miz Watson,” Jacob Sullivan said as he pushed the door open just enough to peek inside, “I was jist wonderin', ma'am, if you knew that Willie's on your roof.”

“Willie?” Nana demanded, “Roof? What in heaven's name you talkin' 'bout, Jacob Sullivan?”

“Well, I only mention it, ma'am, on account of he ain't what you'd call decent.” Jacob was blushing scalp to Adam's apple. “I'd be glad to fetch him down if'n you want but I was thinkin' if you was to have a towel or a tablecloth, it'd be a help.”

“Have you been drinkin', Jacob?” Nana asked suspiciously.

“No, ma'am!” the fisherman protested immediately and indignantly, “I surely ain't!”

My grandmother put aside her cream sauce, rinsed her hands in the kitchen sink and dried her hands on her apron.

“Jacob,” she said warningly as she followed him outside, “If this be somebody's idea of a joke.....”

“Oh, no, ma'am,” he assured her, “You kin see for your own self.”

Watching from behind the screen door, I saw her make her way across the warm grass to the gravel driveway. Jacob shaded his eyes and pointed and even from a distance, I could see her mouth drop open and her eyes widen. Much to my surprise, she let out a small scream and covered her face with her apron but being an eminently practical woman, recovered rapidly.

“Fetch me a bedsheet, child” she hollered at me, “One off the twin beds will do! Jacob, don't just stand there, bring the ladder from the woodshed and be quick about it! Willie! What the blue blazes do you think yer doin'! Don't move! You mind me, Willie! Don't move!”

Willie, I soon saw, was indeed placidly sitting on our roof, Indian style, with - fortuitiously - a basket of rocks in his lap. His private parts were shielded but his newly dyed green hair, sticking out at all angles like an electrified starfish, shone brightly in the afternoon sun. As Jacob started up the ladder with the bed sheet slung over his shoulder, Willie waved cheerfully. He surrendered his basket of rocks willingly and offered no resistance when Jacob wrapped him in the bedsheet and knotted it securely over his scrawny shoulders then slung him into a fireman's carry and began a careful, rung by rung descent. Once on the ground, Willie skedaddled, bedsheet and all, cackling and dancing madly down the front path toward the ditch. The next morning, Nana discovered the neatly folded bedsheet in a basket in the woodbox along with several intact and polished scallop shells, an empty pack of Export A's, and a ragged bouquet of weeds and wilted wildflowers held together with brightly colored string.

“It's a thank you note from Willie,” she told me with a smile, “Remember this, child, crazy don't mean you can't be polite.”

Mother Knows Best

Patience isn't his strong suit but to his credit, it took nine calls before Michael finally lost it.

“I don't have time to measure the f**king blinds!” I heard him howl at his mother, “For God's sake, will you leave me alone! GOD DAYUM!” And with that he slammed the receiver down so loudly it woke all the dogs and made me jump.

The telephone rang again immediately.

“Dear Barbara,” his mother said icily, “Please tell my son if he ever raises his voice to me again,I shall not forgive him and will happily let him rot.”

“Dorothy, I can't......” I began and she cut me off with surgical precision.

“And please tell him that NICE people do not use coarse language under any circumstances!

ESPECIALLY his kind of coarse language and ESPECIALLY to their mothers! I simply will NOT tolerate it!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Michael in the doorway, flushed, breathing like a bull and heading in my direction.

“Yes'm,” I told Dorothy hurriedly, “I'll surely tell him, gotta go now, have a nice day....” and before he could get to my desk, I hung up the telephone.

“WHAT?” he snapped at me.

“Telemarketer,” I said at once, pleased with my own quick thinking and trying my very hardest not to laugh, “Life insurance or some such.” He didn't believe me for a second, of course, but we've been friends for a long time and we both tacitly agreed to let it go.

There's nothing quite like a family feud to push a person right to the edge and then, often with the most naive of intentions, give them an unthinking shove. With the business on life support, the mountainous debt growing daily, the house itself on the brink of collapse, and Michael's sight more precarious than ever, Dorothy's obsession with venetian blinds for the living room isn't currently on the radar nor is it likely to be.

What an amazing gift families have for not seeing what doesn't suit them.

Summer Fog

The fog was a massive, moving white wall, billowing and swirling inexorably toward us. It enveloped the lighthouse and flowed through the passage, swallowing everything in its path, even the sun. Ruthie and I scrambled madly for the wharf but the rolling fog was faster and we were trapped before we got half way.

“Well, hell,” Ruthie muttered, her voice so oddly disembodied that she might've been as close as six inches or as far as six feet, “If that don't beat all.”

Seconds before there had been gulls screeching overhead, waves washing up on the rocks and the sound of the ferry engine making its usual crossing. Now all we could hear was the muted foghorn, calling out a warning in its gruff bass voice. It was a familiar sound but mournful somehow and not much use to a pair of children stuck in a fog bank on a rocky beach.

“Reach out yer hand,” Ruthie called, “Reach out and hold it out.”

We hadn't been that far apart when the fog had come in so it seemed reasonable that we could find each other but it was like reaching into cotton candy. I stretched out my arm only to see it eerily disappear at the wrist.

“Feel around,” Ruthie ordered impatiently, “Like you was tryin' to find somethin' over yer head. Can you whistle?”

I protested that she knew perfectly well I couldn't whistle. She'd tried to teach me for years.

“Sing then!” she snapped, “Loud!”

After several rounds of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”, her fingers finally latched onto mine. We were both cold and soaked to the skin but we weren't alone and there was no need to be afraid. We sat on the rocks in the chowder-like fog and waited it out while the foghorn continued to blare. Eventually the sound grew sharper. Not long after, we heard a muffled engine noise and then the cries of the gulls.  As if someone waved away the mist, the wharf and the factory came into view, then the canteen and then we could see all the way to the end of the passage. The thick, white wall rolled away toward the open water and the sun fought its way through the leftover clouds, revealing a bright, blue summer sky. 

We could hear my grandmother calling our names - I remember feeling relieved that she sounded more alarmed than annoyed - so we scaled the embankment in double time, slipped beneath the guard rail and headed home.  Nana smiled at the sight of us, skinned knees, dirty faces and all, and shooed us into the house for cookies and milk and dry clothes. 

Folks talked about that fog all the rest of the summer, like it was alive almost.  By July, it had been 2o miles across and lasted for three days.  By August,  the whole crew of a whale watching boat had been swallowed up, tourists and all, never to be seen again.  

"Come Labor Day," Nana remarked wryly, "I expect it'll have grown legs, learned to talk and turned radioactive."

And so a one time, freak oddity of weather that lasted minutes and did no damage became a legend.  It was just more fun that way.

You Can't Save Them All

I have lived with, cared for, loved and advocated for animals for as long as I can remember yet I'm no fan of no-kill shelters or the save-everything-just-because-we-can movement. I don't think it's responsible or humane to be building wheelchairs for every blind, obese, mange infested, heartworm positive, paralyzed old basset hound or keeping alive an insulin dependent, 24 year old , three quarters feral stray cat with leukemia and two broken legs and a shattered jaw. There comes a point when it's more important to alleviate pain and suffering than “rescue” and for every broken, emaciated, brutalized and abused animal in a shelter cage, that's one less cage for a young, healthy kitten or puppy. It's heartbreaking and gut wrenching and it'll give you nightmares, but not every animal ought to be saved just because the technology is available. Resources are precious and limited. We need to use them wisely, based on what's best for the animal, not the tender heartedness of our emotions. Lives are going to be lost and sometimes all we can offer is mercy and a peaceful exit. It's not something we must do out of just kindness or compassion or economic necessity or realistic rescue policies. It's something we must do because we are moral creatures with a moral obligation to those who have no voice. It's a truly hateful and poisonous, bitter fact but they can't all be saved.

These are the things going through my mind as I watch and photograph the 20 or 30 newest kittens (and these are only the ones who are out in the open) clustered on the porch of the wretched house on Elizabeth Street. Some are clearly injured, some are missing jagged patches of fur, some are emaciated and half feral. All are grievously ill, their eyes malformed and misshapen, some matted shut with the telltale greenish mucus of distemper, others blind with infection and deformities. Kitten season had just begun the last time I was here and tragically, it's now a thousand times worse.

It helps not at all to know that the man who lives here has no idea he's doing more harm than good. Even if I could put the suffering kittens aside for the moment, the health risk to the neighborhood is real and immediate. Without resources for this kind of situation, there isn't any option except parish animal control and I have no doubt that making that call will be signing the death warrant of every cat and kitten they can grab or trap. Knowing that it's the humane and merciful thing to do doesn't help. I don't want a mass euthanasia on my conscience. I'm not sure I'd ever get over it.

I reach out to anyone and everyone I can think of but in the end, I have to face a harsh reality.

No one except the parish has the resources or the authority to intervene. All these innocent animals will die. It's just a matter of how and how long it takes.

I make the call.

Sweat, Stagger, Stroke

The sky is glaringly blue and filled with fluffy, drifting clouds. Except for the wilting heat, there's no sign of a storm but the old pit bull is restless. He whines and pushes against me until he's securely wedged under my desk, his liquid brown eyes anxious with with anticipation, his considerable bulk trembling. A half hour later, the sky is black, the wind is high and the rain is pounding on the roof like a handful of hammers. There's little I can do to comfort the old dog. He cringes with each crack of lightning and tries desperately to burrow into the floor with every crash of thunder. After several minutes, I ease down under the desk with him and wrap my arms around him, holding tightly and trying to reassure him.

Another half hour and the skies are back to blue. The old dog emerges from his hiding place and shakes off his fear, nudging me fiercely to go outside and alternately bestowing head butts and sloppy kisses. He holds no grudge against the storm and it makes me wish that humans were as easily forgetful or half as resilient.

That evening I'm sitting in a bar and watching a band so bad it's painful. It's loud, it's raucous, and about as harmonic as nails on a chalkboard. The lead guitarist, who I fear will never know the benefits of sobriety, has a distinct and very noticeable tremor in one hand, his fingers waver in front of but often do not touch the guitar strings. He leaves the stage with one foot dragging clumsily and the right side of his body badly skewed and off kilter as he tries to compensate. He's drenched with sweat and there's a sour smell as he passes me. When he glances my way, I see his eyes are twitchy and his face is in ruins. I doubt he even sees me. I'm not sure he sees anyone.

“Christ, it's hot,” he mumbles to no one in particular.

No one answers. No one even notices. He shuffles unsteadily out to the sidewalk, alone and oblivious. His days of resilience are behind him.

Winning

At the third lunge, the cat loses patience and swats the tiny one like a gnat, sending him tumbling off the loveseat and onto the carpet where he lands with a soft, undignified thud. He gives me a pitiful, put upon look but I am unmoved and I could swear the little dachshund is snickering. The cat looks pleased with himself and lazily rearranges all of his fifteen pounds to take advantage of his newly acquired space.

Except for the fact that he has a dark side, I can't think why a tiny, seven pound dog needs to bully a cat twice his size and weight but it happens regularly. Not only that, he's a chaser and a dreadful yapper, perfectly willing to take on whatever strikes his fancy. This miniature, would be terrorist has brought fresh chaos to an already chaotic house and even though he never wins, he refuses to stop trying and each loss fuels his next effort. Despite my frayed nerves, I have to admire his confidence, his bravery, and his persistence. He knows no fear and hasn't the good sense to surrender.  It's more than I can say for myself.

If you live long enough, you learn a thing or two and one of the things I've learned is that there's a time to resist and a time to submit. The real trick is knowing which is which, preferably before too much damage is done. Preferably while you can still change course. Preferably before a cat knocks you ass over teakettle into next week.

I don't have much hope the tiny one will learn. It's only a few seconds before he jumps back onto the loveseat and prepares to pounce on the cat again. This time there's a brief scuffle before he's sent flying over the edge but sent flying he is. The cat, though, has had enough of this nonsense and for all his size and weight, he gracefully abandons the love seat and moves to a sunspot on the table by the window. He dismisses the dog with an over the shoulder double dare you kind of look and then curls up and goes to sleep. The tiny one crawls into my lap and then burrows up under my chin with a huge sigh, making it clear he thinks he's won.

You have to celebrate all your victories, even the small ones and sometimes even the false ones.

Empty Spaces

I've had several days to get used to the idea of Blue's death and the unfeeling reality that life goes on. I've been thinking that the empty spaces we're left with after a loss must serve a purpose. Reminders, maybe, raw places where memories are kept alive.

There has been an outpouring of love for her, a veritable avalanche of condolences, the likes of which I've never seen in this city. People that she knew well, people she touched only lightly or in passing, musicians she helped along the way, dog lovers, folks who knew her in the most superficial of ways but recognized her spirit, even strangers who didn't know her at all but who are touched by the loss of those who did. All reaching out to offer comfort, to share a story or a song, a memory or just a kind word. I see her love and kindness, her generosity and her struggle reflected over and over again. She gave of herself even when she was empty.

A great many of these condolences were based in faith but some bordered on evangelical rapture. These troubled me. Blue wasn't perfect and while I'm absolutely, unshakeably convinced that she died on good terms with God, I'm selfish enough to wish her here rather than there. Her death took away her pain and suffering but it was no damn blessing and I found myself wanting to rail at those who wished her a glorious journey, as if dying were just a whistle stop on a long train ride. She isn't dead yet! I wanted to scream. If you think a soul is worth more than a life, then change places with her and you go!

I wanted to scream but, of course, I didn't. There was no point in stirring up these earth bound soul savers. They meant well, at least I hoped they did, and Blue wouldn't have liked a fuss so I held my tongue and didn't even publicly disagree. Other people's flowery, iron clad faith is not my concern, I told myself, and there's more than one road to salvation. For all their Steeped in the Cross and Blood of the Lamb rhetoric, we all still travel alone. If there's a heaven, I'm willing to concede it's a different place, just not necessarily a better one. And, I have to think, you get there by grace not Bible thumping zealotry or religious mania.

The one Bible verse that did capture my attention and has stayed with me was one that Blue's granddaughter posted.  I think if anything sums up my dear friend, this would be it.  We were so blessed to have her.  We miss you, sweet girl.  Rest in peace.

I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.

2^nd Timothy, 4:7

And Now She Can Rest

I've heard it said that apart from dying yourself, losing someone you love is the the thing we fear the most. My latest visit with Blue brings this home with a clarity I can't pretend away.

There's a storm brewing not far off. The clouds are turning the sky dark and tinged with yellow and I can feel the air getting heavier, the wind gathering in the distance. Bubba crawls into the recliner with me, whining anxiously, his entire body trembling. I comfort him as best I can while watching Blue try to sleep between the coughing spells that rack her small, emaciated body. How anyone this haggard - truth be told, this skeletal - can still be alive is beyond me. The sleeplessness of the night before shows clearly on her face and I'd be surprised if she weighs more than 75 or 80 pounds, maybe even less. At this stage of cancer, one bad night can do amazing damage. It's a hateful, vicious thing but she's becoming a shadow right in front of us and it's beyond unbearable to witness.

The coughing finally subsides and she sleeps, breathing raggedly but steadily. The storm breaks and I can hear rain on the roof.   Bubba, still fearful, burrows into the narrow space between the arm of the recliner and my side. I listen to the whirring of the box fan someone has propped up in a nearby chair, the even hum of the window unit battling the almost 100 degree heat outside, the rain, and the sound of Blue's daughter crying in the next room as she mindlessly folds clothes and clean sheets.

“It's not going to be much longer, is it,” she asks, as I get ready to leave, only it's not really a question.

“I don't know,” I tell her, feeling my heart seize with her pain and my own, hating this cancer with a passion I didn't know I had, hating whatever deity visited it even more.

“She's in God's hands,” I say and for a rare moment, it feels true and is almost comforting.

That was on Saturday.  At just after 5:30 on the following Monday morning, my friend Blue died.

If heaven exists, perhaps its street are lined with gold.  Perhaps there are choirs of angels on every corner.  But what I imagine is a place in the country where there are songbirds instead of sirens and 18 wheelers, a place where the old are made young, the sick are restored and friends and loved ones are re-united.  No one will be in pain, no one will suffer, every dog and cat we've ever loved will be waiting, there will be music, heavenly or otherwise, from dusk to dawn and Blue will be part of it.   

Because if heaven exists, then I know she's there.  And if she's there, it comforts me to know that she's watching over us all.

A Fine Line

It's a hot and humid almost-July afternoon when I get to Blue's. She's sitting upright with a notepad and a pen, making a to-do list with Bubba napping comfortably at her side. She looks even thinner than yesterday but she's alert and clear eyed and her voice is soft but strong. Except for the ever present oxygen tube and the tray of medications nearby and the hospital bed itself, I might just be dropping by for a casual visit with an old friend. For a brief and precious moment or two, that's exactly how it feels. My mind somehow forgets the cancer in much the same way I sometimes forget that dear friends are dead and not just not keeping in touch as well as they might. It's a fleeting thought and I'm brought back to reality when I hug her and can feel her bones through her paper-thin skin.

She reads me her list - bills to be paid, friends to be called, arrangements to be made – end of life things to be done and an accompanying timetable. There's no maybe about any of this, my mind reminds me, these are not just in case reminders. This, if you're lucky and loved, is how life wraps up, with enough time to prepare and sort things out, to get used to the idea, make your peace with it if you can and say your goodbyes. It's a kindness and yet an unbearable cruelty.

After a time, she sets her list aside, curls up on her side with her arms wrapped around Bubba and drifts off to sleep. At first, the steady drone of the window unit doesn't quite cover her uncertain breathing and I hesitate to leave but after several minutes, her sleep seems to turn peaceful and I slip out. The sun is setting behind me as I make my way home and the traffic is light. I find myself thinking about the choices we make and the courage it takes to make them, especially when it's bread and water and not a well stocked buffet.

Twelve step programs teach there's a difference between giving up and surrendering but it can be a fine line. Blue sees it clearly and for that, I'm grateful.

It Is What It Is

I try to remember that when death brings what it brings, it does so without malice. It's not evening the score or meting out punishment. It's not flexing its muscles or showing off. It has no need to have the last word, doesn't concern itself with the pain of those left behind. It has a job to do, no more and no less and it cares not at all whether it's a blessing or an injustice. The empty spaces it leaves within us are not its problem. We may hate it or root for it, deny it or rage against it but we need to remember a basic truth - no matter how it affects, wounds, or hurts us - it isn't personal.  In her song “It Is What It Is”, singer/songwriter Kacey Musgraves wasn't writing about death but she could've been: It is what it is til it ain't anymore.

I try to remember this as I sit with Blue and watch her try to stay awake after her afternoon pain and anxiety meds. It's a muggy, after-the-storm kind of day and the old trailer is on the warm side. I can smell fried shrimp and boudain, flowers and leftover perfume and I can hear Bubba, curled at Blue's feet with his head resting on her ankles, snoring gently. She strokes his head with one pale hand and he sighs. He instinctively knows it's his job to comfort her and he rarely leaves her side.

“Go to sleep,” I tell her, “Let the drugs do their work.”

“What if I don't wake up?” she wants to know with just the shadow of a smile.

There's no answer to this. I smooth out her sheets and turn her pillow, brush her hair off her face, check that her oxygen tube isn't tangled and take her hand. She's so wan and wasted away she almost looks transparent but her spirit is still bright.

“Well, then Bubba would have the whole bed to himself,” I say, “And the chicken and dumplings I brought would go to waste.”

Another hint of a smile. “We can't have that,” she says and her words are beginning to mush, “Reckon I'll hafta wake up at least one more time.”

It doesn't take long til her fingers relax in mine and her breathing levels out. I curl up in her old, second hand recliner chair and watch her sleep, hoping it's as peaceful as it looks and praying she won't wake up in pain or struggling to catch her breath. The cancer steals more from her every day and her frailness and breakability are more obvious with every visit and yet she still finds the strength to comfort others, to be grateful for her life, to trust and to hold onto her faith, even for a little humor and an occasional flash of feisty.   In a strange and agonizing way, she's never been more beautiful.

Camera Ready

When Blue got sick this time, I put my camera down. I found I didn't have the heart to take pictures. She fussed at me for this, reminding me that despite cancer and all the overwhelming losses we face, life goes on.

“Listen,” she scolded, “You have a gift. You can't stop just because I'm dying.”

I hated hearing her say it, hated the truth of it and her calmness when saying it. There have been times these past few days when her acceptance has scalded me. Worst of all, I hated that she was right. She knew it and I knew it. Reluctantly, I dragged out my small point and shoot and aimed it at her. I wasn't at all sure my hands were steady enough for it.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

“Doesn't matter,” I said but it was a reflex reply and I knew it the second I said it. “Put your hand on the guitar here,” I instructed, “Just rest your chin on your hand and look at me.”

“With or without oxygen?” she wanted to know.

I hesitated but only for a second. “With,” I told her, “You're nothing if not real.” There was a suggestion of a smile, more in those soulful brown eyes than her mouth, and I snapped the shutter before I could think about what was happening. The idea that it could be the last picture I would take of her was flitting like a moth around the edges of my mind and I wanted it gone.

“Good?” she asked, putting aside the guitar and sinking back into a nest of pillows.

“Good,” I assured her although I had no idea whether it would be or not, “I'll pretty you up a little and then show you tomorrow.”

She nodded, closed her eyes and fell asleep and another precious day was behind us.

Comforts of Home

 I find myself wishing there was an instruction book for times like this, some “how to” guide that I could refer to and follow, maybe even find some comfort in. I find myself wishing I had Blue's courage or her faith in the afterlife but I'd settle for the acceptance she seems to have found. All I seem to be able to do is witness and grieve and it feels hollow. I tell myself her suffering will be ended. I tell myself she's had a grand ride. I tell myself what she tells me, that's she's tired, has made peace with her Maker and is ready. And none of it helps worth a damn. I can't bear the thought of her not being here in this sorrowfully fucked up and impossible world. I can't bear thinking about missing her.

So we sit in her crowded, cluttered, old trailer home, listening to the soft, steady hum of the window unit and not speaking much. Home health arrives to bathe her and shampoo her hair, her daughter and I put fresh sheets on her hospital bed and make up her afternoon meds. Her cell phone rings a half dozen times and a steady stream of visitors come and go, bringing food and flowers, puzzle books and hugs. Her stocky, short legged old dachshund watches from a distance, confused and a little anxious about all this activity but when the home health nurse finishes and brings his mistress back to her bed, he jumps up to join her, curling snugly around her small, waiflike body, comforting her in a way none of us can. It's a feeling I know well.

In the courage of the dying, there are lessons about living.

Going Home

It's a small thing really and in the overall cosmic scheme of things, it isn't going to make the most microscopic ripple, but after a long, lonely, and pain filled week in the hospital, my friend Blue got to home today. She'll spend the time she has left in familiar surroundings, among her own things, her family and friends, and her beloved dog. It may not seem like much but it matters enormously to her and to those of us who love her.

I find myself wishing there was an instruction book for times like this.

A Crisis of Care

The a/c recognizes a crisis and responds by stubbornly refusing to cool all except two rooms of the house. Sadly, one room is the bathroom and the other is the former guest room, now dedicated to unfinished projects, stuff I haven't found room for or am planning to give away, and litter boxes. I click on the window unit in the kitchen/den and it comes to life with enthusiasm. The second window unit in the bedroom/sunroom - where I spend the majority of my time - reluctantly kicks in but after the first 5 minutes, it crashes and takes everything but the computer with it. I have to dig out my pocket flashlight and hack my way to the circuit breakers, cursing with every step and trying to convince myself it could be worse. I don't allow myself to think of exactly how it could be worse. Lately, it's been my experience that reality sees such thoughts as a challenge.

I make arrangements for the a/c repair people to come on Monday, pick up around the house, tend the animals and head for the hospital. Blue is less well than she was that morning, the fluid is building around her lung again and breathing is a ragged struggle. She's in pain and restless with anxiety. Not wanting to make a scene, no one has asked why someone hasn't drained her lung and the weekend nurses are far too busy with making their Saturday night plans to tend to her. After she's waited over an hour with no response from a nurse, after I've watched her double over and weep with pain and anxiety, I walk to the nurses station myself. It's deserted.

Quite literally abandoned, not a living soul anywhere in sight. The angels of mercy have taken flight. I check my watch and am just about to head back to the room when the elevator pings and a young woman in scrubs exits, talking animatedly on her cell phone and laughing loudly. She stops at the sight of me, rearranges her multiple carry bags and her smile vanishes.

“Hold on,” she mutters into her cell phone and glares at me, “Help ya?” Her voice is slimy with resentment.

When I explain that she has a patient in need, who has been in need for some time, she waves a free hand around the empty nurses station.

“Cain't ya see I'se not signed in and there ain't nobody heah?” she snaps, “maybe sumpin goin' on.”

“Maybe so,” I concede, “But that's not my problem and it's sure as hell not the patient's fault. How about you get your (fat, slovenly, low rent ass) self signed in and do your job?”

She slams her carry alls and makeup bags and oversized totes on the counter but keeps her cell phone jammed to her ear. “What room?” she snarls at me.

“Pick one!” I spit back, “But you can start in 3!”

By the time, 10 or 15 minutes later, she finally saunters into the room, plants one multi ringed, long nailed hand on her hip, looks at Blue and says “So what's goin' on?”, I've already hunted down the regular night nurse and he's brought the much needed medications. I've also found out that the people who could've drained the fluid from her lungs and maybe avoided the worst of it for her, left without bothering to check on her.

“It's Saturday, you see,” he tells me helplessly, “They're long gone.”

“I found Todd,” I tell the fat bitch coldly, “He's taking care of her. But you can close the door on your way out, please.”

She makes a half hearted offer to notify the doctor which neither of us acknowledge and waddles out. Her bracelets and necklaces and dangle earrings jingle like a coin jar.

“Please keep her out of here,” Blue asks Todd when he comes back with additional drugs, “I don't know what her problem is but I've got enough of my own.”

He gives her a concerned look and nods.

And such is the state of health care in this country. There was a time when the best care available in this state came from this particular hospital. Nowadays, you're lucky if they notice you're there.