Missing Pat

Before she died, I was just beginning to understand the likelihood that my second longest friendship with a woman as dear to me as a sister might be, is never going to be the same. We are not going to be running to Dallas to shop, she is not going to preside over any more late night suppers of red beans and rice, she is not going to scold me for not answering my phone or tease me with stories of my domestic incompetence. We're not going to spend long hours dissecting and re-dissecting what went wrong with old friendships or why marriages failed. I'm not going to nag her about her pickiness over food and disdain for chain restaurants. She isn't going to complain about my fear of interstate driving or rail about my stubborness. There'll be no more endless conversations about life, love, suicide, children, regrets, running out of time or the perils of getting old. She's the only friend I have who knows - and has kept - every one of my secrets. I have treasured her wisdom, loyalty, honesty and fierce independence for better than 40 years and I can't imagine life without her in it. But on this, her 4^th or 5^th day in ICU after an unexpected cardiac arrest that came after she'd already been hospitalized a week, I didn't seem to be able to find much light in the darkness. I began to be terribly afraid that I might not see her again and the thought was too paralyzing to consider. You get sick, you go to the hospital and you get fixed, I told myself, that's how it works. Any other outcome was unthinkable.

So I kept in touch with her daughters several times a day and each morning and evening I let myself in to tend her cat. I filled her food and water bowls and then laid on the couch for a half hour or so while she nudged and heat butted and stretched out on top of me, purring like a leaf blower. The house was cluttered with things left undone, eerily quiet and elegant but I refused to allow myself to think it was anything but temporary.

After another day or two, the doctors put in a permanent pacemaker and were cautiously optimistic that her heart was stabilized and her kidneys responding to treatment. They began discussing moving her to a rehab floor but plans stalled after her first night following the implant and she remained in ICU. Stable, the girls told me repeatedly, but very weak, in pain, and sometimes out of it. This didn't come on overnight, I told myself and them, and recovery isn't going to happen overnight. There was no choice except to keep on waiting and watching. To some degree or another, we all put our lives on hold and hoped for the best. After the first two weeks, the cat and I became joined at the hip and the girls sucked it up and carried on, each dividing their time between their own families and the hospital. All of us carried reality in our back pockets but none of us would take it out and look at it.

On an unseasonably warm November night, I got a call from her youngest telling me that her mother had asked for me. I think a part of me knew it was to say goodbye and I threw on my clothes and drove as fast as I dared in the darkness to the hospital. Whatever I was feeling was buried far too deep to face. I found myself holding onto my denial as if it were a lifeline. She'd developed an infection in her blood and a Cpap was breathing for her – the mask covered her face from chin to hairline. It was loud and looked uncomfortable as it forced air into her lungs and took out CO2. She couldn't talk, could barely move or even open her eyes. When I took her hand and squeezed, I saw a trace of recognition cross her face, just a shadow really, so brief I almost missed it. Her daughters were all there, holding on as best they could, grief stricken and trying to be brave for her and each other. I sat by the bed and held her hand as nurses and the respiratory therapist came and went. More IV's, more drugs, a quick visit from one of her doctors. Outside her 7th floor window, the lights of the city were bright and busy, traffic was thick with everyone on their way to somewhere else. Here there was only the ghastly sound of the Cpap, the flickering lights of the machines, the occasional musical-like alarms of the monitors keeping track of her heart rate and blood pressure and oxygen intake. The fluid in her lungs was slowly but surely drowning her. Her entire body, so heartbreakingly thin it was almost transparent, was a mass of bruises and dressings and discolorations. I fought off the thought that she'd never make it through the night but it came back, persistent and stronger, gnawing and scratching with renewed energy in every breath. I couldn't make any of it real. The girls has turned down the dialysis and signed a DNR order. There was nothing more to be done.

She died at 2:3o that morning. Her youngest texted me and though I saw the words, they were a jumble. I felt disconnected and abandoned and couldn't make sense of it. Morning came and I went to feed the cat and turn off the porch lights. The silence of the house was desperate - her signature was on everything, I realized - every painting, piece of crystal, stick of furniture and photograph was a reflection of her taste, every color was her choice. The idea that she would never return to the house she so loved was unbearable. I hugged and held and stroked the cat until she purred herself to sleep right on my chest. Here where we had spent so many days and evenings and random hours, I thought the tears might come but I left dry eyed. What I know in my mind hasn't quite reached my heart. This was a woman who rose above personal tragedy on a regular basis. For decades, she counseled, sheltered, mothered, scolded, reassured, praised, argued with and stood by me. She saw me through an alcoholic husband and an unfaithful one, gave me work, found the house I now live in, rescued me when my car died at 2 in the morning. She offered me a place in her family yet respected the distance between us and trespassed only when she thought it was absolutely necessary. She despaired of my stubbornness and didn't always understand my loyalty, believed in me more than I ever believed in myself, and never once gave up on me though she did like to remind me that she'd told me so on more than one occasion. Even then, she did it with a hug and a smile. When it came to honesty and integrity, she practiced what she preached and wished more folks would do the same, even when it was painful. She did not suffer fools gladly or otherwise but was rarely mean spirited about it. She loved her daughters with a hard and indestructible passion and missed her husband every single day but loss didn't stop her. She understood and accepted that life doesn't stop for death. She made room for everyone she cared about to be themselves, make their own choices whether she agreed or not, and ease the consequences of a bad decision whenever she could. She was a remarkable woman, a true and always reliable friend, a loving mother, a decent and fine businesswoman. She cared deeply about her family, her friends, her cats and her community.

She loved and was much loved in return.

Although the memory of my last visit with her is likely to stay with me for the rest of my life – it was grotesque and truly awful – it was also a gift I will always treasure and for which I will be eternally grateful. Other memories will, in time, become stronger and overcome those last few hours. Hours spent working crossword puzzles on her front porch, how she taught me to needlepoint and cross stitch, working together for a theatre renovation project with a different crisis every hour and the constant risk of a piece of plaster falling on our heads. Long drives to and from Dallas for market, regular Thursday evening suppers with our husbands at a favorite restaurant. Weekly cards and letters when I moved away, her delight at snow when she visited me in New England, elegant dinners in the French Quarter, long, lazy weekends at the lake, the hours we spent in the hospital waiting room the night her first daughter was born. Not all memories are happy - I watched her children grow up but I also watched her husband die long before his time. The good and bad times slipped through our fingers and then one day, we woke up old and tired, painfully aware of our own mortality and missing the friends we were losing.

Charlie Chaplin wrote “Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.”

Rest in peace, my dear and precious friend. We'll take it from here.

Spare Change

I'd been scrounging the bottom of my battered Lucky purse for loose coins and was leaning against the exterior wall of a drugstore known for its tolerance of panhandlers, when the well dressed, silver haired lady came through the automatic doors. I noticed her in my peripheral vision but thought nothing of it until she stopped directly in front of me and with one perfectly manicured hand, offered me a palmful of silver.

“Here, dear,” she said kindly, “Maybe this will help.”

Slack jawed and speechless, I was still searching for the proper response while she briskly crossed the parking lot, gracefully climbed into her black Mercedes, and drove away. I had no idea whether to be insulted or grateful or entertained or just bewildered. A quick look in the security mirror ruled out insulted - I saw what she had seen, an old woman with ragged gray hair under an ill fitting knit cap, dressed in sweatpants and an ancient tee shirt over thermals and a plaid flannel shirt, Nikes that had seen far better days, a pair of dark purple fingerless gloves my cousin had made for me and sent all the way from Florida and no teeth.

“Good Lord,” I muttered, “No wonder she thought I was homeless.”

I guessed gratitude was more appropriate with bewildered a close second but entertained won out. I bought my cigarettes and Peanut Butter Cups, wrote out a check and left the lady's change in one of those plastic “Help a Hungry Child in Malaysia” collection boxes retail stores always seem to have at checkouts.

There are still a number of women in this town who would cut their throats before going to the grocery store without make up and heels. I've never been one of them, not even when I was expected to be, and it often caused ripples in my appearance-conscious family. If you judge a book by its cover, my daddy told me, you'll often be wrong and you might miss a really good story. I'm not likely to change my refugee-looking ways at this late date but I don't suppose it would do any harm if I were to remember my teeth.

Parking Lot Games

The saving grace was that it happened in the parking lot of the grocery store so neither of us was traveling at much more then 15 mph. I had the right of way when the shiny black Jeep

ran the stop sign and crossed directly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and the little

blue car spun sideways, missing the Jeep by no more than a whisker. My window was open and the words were out and hanging in the crisp November air before I knew it.

YOUMISERABLESTUPIDBUTTSNIFFINGMOTHERFUCKINGSONOFALOWLIFEWHOREPIECEOFSHITLOOKWHEREYOU'REGOING!!!

The driver of the Jeep, a youngish blonde woman in a red MAGA hat, gave me an oblivious, careless wave and drove on.

WHERE'DYOUGETYOURLICENSESEARSANDFUCKINGROEBARDS! I screamed and leaned on the horn hard.

The near miss had me shaking so hard I had no time for punctuation. The Chevy pickup who had been behind the Jeep gave me a thumbs up and a sympathetic smile then gestured for me to drive ahead. Instead, I wrenched the steering wheel to the left and took off after the Jeep, not even considering what I intended to do if I caught it. That red MAGA hat burned in my vision and it suddenly seemed as if everything that was wrong with the world was driving that goddamned Jeep. I sped up and caught her at the parking lot exit, took note of the Anti Abortion and NRA and Trump 2020 stickers plastered on the vehicle's back end and whipped out my cell phone and snapped a picture. She noticed and immediately plowed into and through oncoming traffic. There was an explosion of blaring horns and screeching brakes but somehow no collisions.

I caught my breath enough to shake my fist and yell some final insult about her mother and alligators eating their young, then came to my senses and pulled into a parking space to regroup, calm down and console myself with a vision of the dumb bitch in a six car pile up where only she was hurt. Maybe her Jeep would catch on fire, I thought hopefully, maybe it would explode and send her and her red hat to kingdom come. Even when calm and rational thought returned much later, I couldn't bring myself to take any of it back. I don't often wish people dead these days, at least not like I used to, but some folks are just too deserving.

A Memory of Crows

I remember hearing crows.

It was a clear, crisp October afternoon along a recently blacktopped backwoods road in Maine. The smell of fresh gravel and tar was faint but still in the air. The sun was just beginning to go down and I was pedaling a little harder and a little faster to be sure I got home in time for supper. Traffic was scarce on the rural two lane road and I wasn't paying much attention to it. I wouldn't have noticed the small, two tone beige station wagon at all if it hadn't been rattling and belching smoke from the exhaust as it passed me. Some sort of old Volkswagon, I remember thinking and was trying to remember the theme from the Midas Muffler tv ads as it disappeared over the next hill. Then I was distracted by a scarecrow in a corn field - it reminded me of the Wizard of Oz - and I pulled over and stopped to get a better look. It was a near perfect late fall day and just past the scarecrow I could see a herd of dairy cows and a couple of shaggy draft horses peacefully grazing. On the far side of the right hand ditch, a chorus line of crows perched on the telephone wires, cawing raucously and righteously and flapping their wings as they lifted off then alighted again in a flurry of feathers. They jockeyed for position and status but never lost their symmetry. I thought of Edgar Allen Poe's raven and half expected one of them to call out to me, a salutation perhaps, or maybe a warning, who could tell.

 

I got back on my bike and coasted down the incline to gather as much speed as I could for the next hill and then pedaled fiercely. It wasn't as hard as I'd thought it would be and the crest of the hill came easily. Before I knew it I was coasting downhill again and it was then I saw the old Volkswagon parked on the shoulder of the road. The driver's door was open and there was a man behind the wheel, a beer-bellied man in a checked shirt with pale skin and straggly red hair on his head and chest. His trousers were around his ankles and he was watching me. I wasn't old enough to exactly know what I was seeing but I knew I was alone and that it was wrong and probably dangerous. A sickness of fear crawled into my gut and I doubled down, pedaling for all I was worth and flying past the small car like the wind. I pedaled harder, ignoring the sharp stab of a stitch in my side and the acid taste in my mouth. I could hardly breathe for the pain in my chest but I kept going. Fear, I discovered, could motivate you beyond your limits. I was expecting to hear that ratchety old muffler behind me at any second and I turned down the first country lane I came to and rammed my bike and myself head over heels into the ditch. The startled crows on the telephone wires cawed in protest. I crouched down in the muddy water, camouflaged by weeds and the depth of the ditch, and waited for what seemed like forever but nothing followed or tracked me down. I heard no cars, no motors, and most importantly, no rattle trap mufflers. I waited some more, cold and wet, listening to the crows and very afraid.

Eventually I convinced myself that the danger was past and I crawled out of the ditch. I could see a long way in both directions and there was not a car in sight. I dragged my bike out of the weeds, wiped off the mud, and set for home, listening for every small sound and watching over my shoulder the entire way. It took a long time and I had to stop twice to throw up but I got home. I rinsed off the bike in the lake and managed to sneak past my mother and change my clothes before supper. If I'd been caught, I was going to say I'd been going too fast and run off the road and into a ditch. Skinned my knees and the palms of my hands, tore my jeans and tee shirt but no harm done.

I'd turned ten that past summer, not an age when I knew how to tell my daddy about a nasty, dead fish bellied, half naked , redheaded pervert on the side of the road. More, I had an unpleasant suspicion that if I told my mother, it would somehow end up being my own fault.

I'd had a bad scare, I reasoned, but nothing had actually happened, so I never told a soul and did my best to put it out of my mind. I stayed around the cabin more than usual from then on and told my daddy I was getting too old to be riding a bike everywhere. He didn't question me and the crows who had seen it all kept silent.

Fill in the Blank

Leaving the bank, I passed by the manager's office and heard her call out my name and wish me a good day.

“Thanks! You too.....................” and there was a blank space where her name should have been.

“Ma'am!” I finished lamely. By the time I got to my car, I'd remembered it was Valerie but it was too late. The moment was lost. These days, although I find myself more and more trying to fill in these kind of blank spaces, it was the first time I could remember just flat out blacking out on the name of someone I've known for years. It was unsettling.

I love language and it annoys me no end when a specific word just will not come. Once a year I re-read “Wheel of Fortune” by British writer, Susan Howatch, for the sheer joy of the dialogue and the incredible elegance and creativity of her writing. My cousin writes with much the same grace and I often wish I had her gift. I don't know if she has these pauses with words that just unexpectedly refuse to show up but I'm betting I'm not the only one it happens to. I like to tell myself it's just absent mindedness and not anything more serious like some misfiring brain cell at death's door, crossing over and never to be heard from again. After all, everybody's forgetful now and then. It's part of the process. And just because the name of a bank manager eludes me for a few seconds or I can't remember why I came into the kitchen …. well, it's irritating but no cause for panic.

Before my mother was diagnosed with cancer and a host of other ills, she had moments of dementia. She would become vacant-eyed and bewildered during a scrabble game, not be able to recall the name of a common household item or suddenly lose the thread of a conversation. As a family, our second nature learned responses kicked in at once - we simply pretended it wasn't happening - just like we'd learned to pretend she wasn't a drunk. Just like we'd learned to fall asleep to the sounds of a raging argument or the crash of a ashtray hitting a wall. There was no cause for panic at those moments either.

I kick my denial into a higher gear and tell myself that these early warning signs (ironically, the word “precursor” evades me even as I'm writing), are unimportant. I focus on being grateful that these random memory lapses don't come any more often and cost me nothing but minor aggravation. It's easy to call someone an asshole or moron or son of a bitch but it's magic to call someone “....the jaundiced secretion of a bilious toad's eye...” (Sybil Fawlty, Fawlty Towers).

No matter how limited it may become, I will never not love language.

Follow the Leader

As traveling carnivals went, it wasn't anything to write home about. A half dozen tired rides, a sad and sorry Bingo tent, a couple of dancing chickens who had seen far better days and the food wagons - cotton candy, caramel apples, foot long hot dogs with cheese and chili - enough grease and sugar to make a 10 year old's heart beat like a hammer. Courtesy of my grandmother, who was more than happy to get us out from underfoot for an afternoon, Gilda and I each had two crisp, new dollar bills to spend as we wished. We hardly knew where to start but then Gilda saw the fortune teller's tent and her eyes lit up like Christmas.

“Wicked!” she breathed into my ear and began tugging on my sleeve, “C'mon!”

I was an imaginative child but not a brave one and the idea of leaving the summer sunlight and open air for a ragged and dark tent with some mad, mangy gypsy who I was absolutely positive would look like Elvira Gulch didn't appeal to me. I tried to hang back, tried to shake off Gilda's vise like grip on my elbow.

“Don't be a sissy!” she snapped and pulled a little harder.

A dirty, bedraggled yellow banner proclaiming Madame Zena's fame hung crookedly on the front of the tent. FORTUNE TELLER TO THE STARS! it read, TAROT READINGS AND TEA LEAVES!

SEE YOUR FUTURE IN THE CRYSTAL BALL! ONLY 25 CENTS! A sullen-eyed, leering midget sat Indian style in a rickety lawn chair by the closed tent flap, one grimy hand extended to take our quarters. I imagined flying monkeys were not far away but Gilda refused to let go.

“I'll leave you!” she threatened, “and the midget will get you and steal you like they do babies!” Next thing I knew, we had slithered by the midget and were inside the dark tent. It smelled of unwashed clothes and patchouli and was smoky with incense. The real world of grade school and Saturday matinees and spaghetti on Wednesday nights closed behind me. I wasn't at all sure we'd ever be able to get back but Gilda was fearless, a warrior with braids and a toothy grin, always a step away from adventure or disaster.

Once our eyes had adjusted to the dimness, we could see a round wooden table with four overturned barrels for chairs. She pushed me onto one and took another across from me and

Madame Zena appeared ….well, materialized was more like it....from out of the shadows. I saw at once that this was no Elvira Gulch and something in my gut relaxed. She was tall and slender and dressed in chiffon - the word “willowy” came to mind – and most surprisingly, she was young with a cloud of dark hair that fell to her waist, a sweet smile and pale, perfect, unlined skin. She couldn't have been much older than we were, I realized with a shock. How could I have been terrorized by a pretty teenage gypsy?

She whirled her skirts, threw back her hair and took a seat between us. “Well, little ones,” she said in a soft voice with just the slightest suggestion of an accent, “What shall it be? The cards, the tea leaves or …...........possibly the crystal?” The last was offered with an engaging tilt of her head and a sly smile aimed directly at Gilda.

“The crystal!” my cousin said without hesitation and Madame Zena nodded approvingly. With a flurry of chiffon scarves, a dramatic hand gesture or two and a quick incantation, she seamlessly produced a crystal ball and placed it on the table. This expert bit of misdirection was so elegantly and unexpectedly done that Gilda and I both jumped in surprise but the pretty gypsy girl just lowered her eyes and favored us with a mysterious smile. She peered into the crystal ball, alternately frowning and smiling. Without warning, a smoky haze rose from the floor and enveloped us. At the same time, something warm and furry brushed by my ankle and I nearly shrieked but it was only a cat – all black (no surprise) with glowing yellow eyes and a bob tail.

It jumped lightly to an unoccupied barrel and regarded us impassively.

The smoke cleared and Madame Zena looked satisfied.

“You are of blood,” she intoned solemnly, “But not sisters.......cousins, I think, but close in mind and spirit.” Here she peered into the crystal ball, eyes narrowed. “One leads,” she said slowly,

looking directly at Gilda, “And one follows.” she finished, looking straight at me and a chill seemed to slither up my backbone.

The rest was plain vanilla and not memorable. After several minutes, she covered the crystal ball with a pastel scarf, gathered up the black cat and invited us to come again. Gilda and I slipped out into the sunshine. The midget, now sitting on a wooden bar stool and calmly knitting what appeared to be several yards of scarf, gave us a toothy grin. I blinked and rubbed my eyes and he tipped his cap, hopped off the stool and ducked into the tent, trailing the overlong scarf over one shoulder. I blinked again and he was gone.

Nana liked to tan both our hides for being late to supper but when she asked where we'd been and Gilda immediately said we'd wanted one last ride at the carnival, I backed her up without a second thought. Some of us lead and some of us follow and hope for the best.

Nothing Lasts Forever

Nothing lasts forever.

The little blue car, cosmetically unsightly but as reliable as rain, makes a series of gagging noises when I turn the key and refuses to start. I hope it's no more than the battery but the poor old thing is nearing its 20^th birthday and may be ready to give up the ghost. It's 1o5 in the shade and car trouble is the last thing I need but shit happens, I remind myself. I resign myself to it and start looking for the bright side.

It could've happened this morning all the way on the other side of the city and left me stranded at the vet's office.

Even if the a/c is less than perfect in the old Suburban, lots of folks wouldn't have access to a second vehicle.

My Mobil card is paid up and it isn't pouring rain.

I have enough savings to make a down payment on a new car if it's absolutely essential.

Turns out the bright side isn't as far off as I thought. The mechanic replaces the battery for less than a small fortune and confidently sends me on my way.

When it happens a second time not 24 hours later, this time in the early evening as I'm leaving a local bar, I have to work a little harder to find the bright side. The mechanic is distraught to discovers a connection was left loose when the battery was installed and he's so ashamed that it's all he can do to meet my eyes. I tell him not to be a goose, nobody's perfect. He thanks me and gives me a hug, tells me he appreciates my business and my understanding. I've known him for a lot of years and I suspect he means it. That's part of the bright side.

The little blue car lives to fight another day.

Paper Cuts & Other Life Threatening Injuries

I wake to the all too familiar news that my friend, Dennis, is in jail. The police found him passed out on the side of the road with the engine running, his foot on the brake, and an open container in his hand. It's his third offense which means that there are fifty or a hundred that he got away with and they waste no time or nicelties hauling his scrawny ass to a cell. Friends and family blow up the internet with sympathy and worry and well wishes and a Gofundme to raise his $3000 bail. They point out that he has cancer he needs treatment for and that he was just released from several weeks in the charity hospital for a life threatening infection in his intestines. There is rampant speculation that he isn't being allowed his medications, that he is confined to a cell for 21 hours each day, that his significant other has refused to bail him out and that his family is being indifferent to his plight. They are quoted as saying he's a worthless drunk, it's his own doing, and he can rot for all they care. If you really care about him, one sister writes, You'll take his damn keys and throw them in the river. The words are harsh and painful to hear but they resonate with me more than I like. The line between helping and enabling is thinner than a paper cut. It can be invisible but still hurt like a son of a bitch. The effort to raise the bail money barely causes a ripple and though I struggle with it, in the end I decide not to give. I don't believe that the local police will let him die in custody and apart from his poor health issues, I don't believe jail is likely to do him any harm. I'm very much in the minority about this and it's not a decision I come to lightly. There's a good chance he'll be angry with me - as will others – possibly it could even mean an end to our friendship but I'm willing to risk it. As my friend Charli reminds me, if he gets angry, then he gets angry. He can be angry for a lot of years to come, God willing.

Killer

The question is: Why on earth didn't she run?

She was only a foot or two from the fence and could've scaled it easily enough. She was within an easy sprint of a massive oak tree and the dogs hadn't seen her yet. She had the time and the space to run. And she didn't. They attacked with a killer fury and she fought back like a mini tigress but a 10 pound cat against 150 pounds of psychotic pit bull isn't much of a contest and even as I beat the dogs into submission and got her away from them, I knew she had no real chance. I wrapped her in a towel and for the 2^nd time in as many days, but with no illusions of saving her life this time, headed for the vet's. The only thing I could do was put an end to her suffering. She died shortly after we arrived and I was left shattered and still asking myself, why didn't she run?

If I were a stray cat in a yard where I knew there were dogs that could turn savage in a nano second and they hadn't seen me, I'm reasonably sure I'd head for the hills. I found myself re-thinking the death of the stray kitten the day before - at the time, I'd assumed it had been an owl or a hawk or one of the alpha male ferals that live in the neighborhood. I go with the dogs when I let them out and I couldn't imagine them attacking a defenseless kitten and my not noticing but then I got to thinking that if he'd no chance to run or fight back, maybe they could've killed him without a commotion. And maybe, just maybe, the adult female they'd gone after so mercilessly now had been his mother. Maternal instinct is a powerful force and I couldn't think of anything else that made any kind of sense. To be sure, I scoured the yard on both sides of the fence and explored under the house but found no sign of kittens.

It amazes me to see the old pit - the most mellow, mild mannered and patient of dogs - turn into a frenzied and vicious predator. I can't comprehend it's the same dog who lays his head on my lap and gazes at me with such love and devotion. How is it possible that this fat, arthritic, and clumsy old cast off who is terrified of storms and loud noises is also a lethal killer.

Perhaps it's just that we all change faces depending on the circumstance. Even dogs.

Rockslide

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda wrote, “You can cut all the flowers but you can't keep spring from coming.” I very badly want to think he's right but the death toll is rising and I feel the weight of it like a rockslide. Two more mass shootings in one weekend and we are so crushed and numbed that the horror of it barely registers. It's another win for hate and cruelty and the despicable racism that the president promotes. Soon there may be no flowers left to cut.

If my daddy were alive, he would undoubtably tell me that I worry too much, that I'm taking things too seriously, that good always wins in the end. It doesn't. Regardless of who wins in the next presidential election, some of the damage that's been done will never be undone. “It's not about politics,” I recently read, “It's about morality.” It's about discovering who people really are, including ourselves, and then getting over the shock at what we learn. Losing friends who think the suggestion that we shoot immigrants is funny is no great loss. If that's what you think, then I don't want to know you no matter how much I may like your music or admire your love of and kindness to animals. Regardless of who wins and what happens, we're done. I'm only ashamed that it's taken me this long.

In the 60's, I was in my teens, one of thousands of young people living in and around Boston who protested the war, stood with the welfare mothers, was disgusted with corporate America and detested Nixon. I believed in peace and love and kindness to animals. I was willing to fight for the less fortunate, wanted treatment on demand for addicts and alcoholics, worked for the democrats and thought term limits might save the country from the corruption and greed of the rich. I gave up my Villager skirts and sweaters for beads and ragged blue jeans. I carried signs and stood on street corners and marched in protests. I wanted nothing to do with my middle class background or the status quo. I smoked and drank and slept with young black men. I wanted to re-make the country fair and equal and color blind. I didn't do drugs but I had no particular issues with those who did. Speaking out became a way of life and some 50 years later, it's a hard habit to break. Living in sin with the boy I later married was a badge of honor.

Coming from that place to now, it's almost impossible to stay out of the fray. I can't shake the idea that silence makes me an accomplice but at the same time I feel too helpless and hopeless to fight. I won't live long enough to see the consequences of the current administration and I see that as a curious sort of kindness.

Hate does not and should not come easily to us. Like pain, time tends to make it fade. But I hate - well and truly hate - the monster in the White House and all he stands for. We have cut down our own flowers and spring may never be quite the same again.

Cometh the Rain

It was another steamy hot July afternoon when I left work and by the time I reached the intersection, the a/c was blowing fast and furious but had barely de-fogged my sunglasses. I almost didn't see the man on the corner. He was tall and rail-thin, wearing blue jeans and sporting a bright red t shirt with a white Nike logo, barefoot and holding a hand lettered sign that read “Cometh the Rain”. With his free hand, he was making the hand signals from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and more than one driver was responding in kind. Just another homeless, harmless lunatic, I thought but just in case I hit the door lock button of the little blue car. When you live in a world gone more than slightly mad, there's no percentage in taking risks. The light changed and I pulled away.

I am very much a creature of habit and the very next morning, although coming from the opposite direction, I ended up stopped at the same intersection. This time there was a woman in a coral colored ball gown with a mesh top sitting alone on the bus stop bench. She was delicately holding a filter tip cigarette in one hand and reaching into a bag of Purina One dog treats with the other. I watched her munching casually and when she looked up and saw me, she graciously extended the bag toward me as if to offer me a biscuit. I shook my head and she shrugged her coral covered shoulders and gave me a brilliant smile. I was wondering if she and the Close Encounters man might not be fellow escapees but I couldn't help but smile back.

Life is nothing if not an uncertain adventure. What with malls in foreclosure, stores closing after no more than a few months in business, restaurants failing at record levels and more homes for sale than I can ever remember, our small southern city may be on the brink of dying but at least we'll be entertaining about it and go out with style.

Unfixable

It's a hard lesson and often it takes decades to learn but the fact is, not everything is fixable.

If it were up to me, animal abusers, child molesters and rapists would be publicly castrated and then executed on the court house lawns in as lengthy and excruciating painful a manner as we could think of.

If it were up to me, the inventors of shrink wrap plastic and child resistant pill bottles would be staked out atop fire ant mounds and wrapped in yellow fever blankets.

If it were up to me, every greedy, crooked politician would be stripped naked and hanged in a public square. Twice. And it would be televised.

Such are my dreams these days. I've lived too long and am too tired and broken down to be tactful or superficially nice. I do not, as Salvatore Dali famously said, understand voluntary idiocy.

Until now, my friend Michael has always been able to pull a last minute rabbit out of a last minute hat. Somehow, he's always managed to come up with some scheme or new approach and save the day for himself and the agency and I've been constantly amazed at his persistence and optimism and ability to rebound even from the most dire of circumstances. Until now, I thought it was just a matter of time and creative energy but in recent days and weeks, I realize it's far more serious. I've witnessed him wrack his brain for a solution. I've watched him drive himself into a suicidal depression over paying the bills and feeding his dogs. I've listened to his every desperate and impossible idea. I've heard him wonder aloud, what's the point. I lose sleep for worrying about the future. I can't remember ever seeing a man so utterly and completely miserable, without hope and on the very brink of defeat. Things will look brighter in the morning, I tell him, but the words are hollow and we both know it. The plain fact is that what he does is no longer wanted, no longer attractive, no longer relevant. Modeling has become entitled and frivolous, acting is now a do-it-yourself art. Everybody wants to be an instant star but nobody wants to put in the time or do the work. The big modeling conventions of the past are over, the glory days behind us and everybody still hanging on is scrambling for a new approach or fresh revenue source. Mostly we're all out of ideas.

I try to keep in mind that sometimes things fix themselves if we can manage to stop interfering. Meanwhile, we muddle on, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time, hoping for a turnaround, a better economy, or a miracle.

It's A Cat Thing

The youngest cat watches me walking toward her but it doesn't occur to her to get out of my way. The very second I step over her though, she puts it in gear and skitters backwards. When I compensate to avoid stepping on her, I lose my balance and abruptly find myself on the floor. She watches from a safe distance and I'm absolutely, positively convinced it was an intentional act on her part. She has developed an amazing talent for being indifferently underfoot and/or in the way.

I am not her only target, of course. When she's not running randomly from room to room and feverishly meowing with every other step, she lies in wait - around corners, behind doors, under furniture - for the other cats. She's not much on technique, seems quite content to wait for them to pass by then launching herself like a heat seeking missile. Even when she misses, which is pretty often, the target cat is startled and defensive and a quarrel invariably follows each ambush. It sounds quite a bit worse than it actually is but it's still enough to rattle my nerves and aggravate the dogs, both of whom are unexpectedly tolerant of her. They patiently let her chew on their ears, knead their bellies and even steal their food with barely a whimper. On the rare occasion that she crosses the line, there might be a low growl from the little dachshund but it's perfunctory at best, and usually ignored.

About the time I decide I could cheerfully smother her with her own double paws, she changes tactics and quietly crawls up on the love seat, burrowing into my side and purring like a runaway jackhammer. I scratch her ears and under her chin and she looks at me with those trusting and totally innocent green eyes. My mad instantly fades away and my impatience and aggravation with her evaporate. It's a cat thing.

This Way Out

The look on the cashier's face said it all. It was a mix of weariness, veiled anger, and the certain knowledge that saying what he really thought would get him fired. The customer, a tree trunk of a man in a vile temper, slammed his fists on the check writing platform.

“Where's your supervisor at, white bread?” he demanded. My head snapped up and there was an audible gasp from the people behind me in line. The cashier sighed and reached for the intercom. The customer fumed.

A supervisor arrived and quietly explained to the customer exactly what the cashier had already said. The customer narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the supervisor.

“Figures you'd take his side, Uncle Tom,” he said nastily.

The supervisor's jaw dropped and from behind the barrier of the customer service counter, I saw someone reach for the telephone. The people behind me began moving away to other registers.

A second supervisor appeared, followed almost immediately by a uniformed officer resting one hand casually on his gunbelt. I was thinking that the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups weren't worth it and wishing hard I'd chosen a different line. I wasn't in any danger (it crossed my mind that that was probably exactly what the letter carrier was thinking just before he was shot to death a few door down from my house) but the whole thing was giving me butterflies in my belly. As with any confrontation or even the threat of one, I had an all consuming desire to run. Raised voices make me sick with fear.

Luckily, the big cop had no such problem. The irate customer was ushered from the store and the situation naturally defused itself. No harm, no foul. Except for that shrill, nagging little voice that wants to keep reminding me that the world has changed and none of us are really safe anywhere.

Grudges in the Garden

By the time little Davey Young commenced to courting Margaret Ann Elliot, the families had been feuding so long that no one could remember how it had started.

“Ain't my business,” my grandmother told Uncle Shad over iced tea and pimento sandwiches,

“But after 30 or 40 years, if'n I couldn't recollect the cause of a quarrel, I b'lieve I'd let her go.”

“Ayuh,” Shad nodded, “But you ain't the Youngs or the Elliots. They ain't what you'd call forgivin' folks.”

“Reckon that's so,” Uncle Willie agreed, accepting a sprig of mint for his tea, “They's both hard families. They tend their grudges like some folks tend a garden.”

“Damn foolishness,” Nana pronounced, always preferring to have the last word, and the two men nodded solemnly while she refilled their glasses. The two young people under discussion were disappearing over the rise of The Old Road. At the sound of an approaching engine, they picked up their pace, snatched each other's hands and gracefully jumped the guardrail, vanishing into the fog but it was only Cap's old pickup truck and it passed harmlessly by. It took several seconds before I realized that we'd all been holding our breath.

Not that it made any difference, but the village was far and away on the side of love. Very few were willing to actively risk the wrath of the warring families but islanders tended to turn a blind eye. No one reported when they were seen together, no one followed their movements, no one turned them in at the Saturday night dance. The general feeling was that the sins of the fathers - whatever they might have been - should not be visited upon Davey and Margaret Ann decades later. The elder Youngs and Elliots saw things differently. It was, as anyone could see,

a storm in the making and it broke on a fine Sunday morning just as the Baptist Church let out and Davey and Margaret approached the pastor. They were, as they told him, using the then popular phrase, “free, white and 21” and they wanted to be married. The reaction of their families was predictable - rage, horror, shame and shotguns - and James quickly led them back into the church and sanctuary.

“Not while I draw breath!” Margaret Ann's daddy, Nathan, shouted and took a swing at Davey's daddy, Gilbert, with the butt end of his gun.

“Hell will freeze first!” Gilbert shouted back and rammed his own gun into Nathan's belly. In a matter of seconds, both men were on the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and shotguns, flailing wildly at each other and raising a cloud of dust and gravel into the summer air. The crowd watched with that morbid kind of fascination people have for car wrecks until the families finally stepped in and separated them. Both men broke free and rushed the front doors of the church with God only knew what intentions but the pastor intervened.

“THIS IS GOD'S HOUSE!” he roared at them, “YOU'LL NOT DEFILE IT WITH ANGER OR GUNS!”

This unexpected show of temper was so unlike the pastor, a generally patient, soft spoken, and forgiving man of grace and mild manner, that everyone was caught off guard. Nathan and Gilbert froze in their tracks and it gave James the time to collect himself and his thoughts.

“God's house,” he repeated firmly but calmly, “I'll have no more violence outside or inside it.”

“This ain't your business, Mr. Minister,” Gilbert said sullenly, “Stay outta of it.”

“Send the children out,” Nathan advised darkly, “Or God's house or not, we'll jist take 'em.”

But the island had had enough. Uncle Willlie and Uncle Shad stepped forward. Sparrow hobbled up beside them. Cap and all four of his sons, both the Ryans, and a half dozen of the Sullivan brothers stepped neatly between the pastor and the men with the guns. They were joined by several of the womenfolk including Miz Clara, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi. My grandmother sighed, took my hand in her's and moved up beside them. Aunt Jenny and Ruthie came along as well,

then the McIntyres, the Tituses, the Albrights. Miz Hilda and Doc McDonald stepped up arm in arm, then Gene with Buttons at his side, and Johnny with his crowd of brothers and sisters. The rest of the congregation stood squarely and umistakably behind them. The Youngs and the Elliots were outnumbered and outflanked and they knew it. Nathan and Gilbert lowered their guns reluctantly.

James allowed himself a small smile. “Good,” he said approvingly, “Now maybe we can work all this out.” The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Happy endings though come in all sizes and colors and they're not always what we hope for or expect. After a time, the Youngs and the Elliots did reach a kind of detente and learn how to more or less peacefully coexist, proving that people can change. But without a common enemy,

Davey and Elizabeth Ann changed as well. Without the allure of a forbidden romance, they drifted apart and over time became fast friends but never anything more. They'd taken the long way around, Nana said, but in the end, they got where they were meant to be.

Death of a Mailman

The tragic death of an innocent mail carrier has stunned my small city.

This middle aged father and grandfather was gunned down in broad daylight, not but four houses and a fence away from my own house, in a neighborhood I drive past and occasionally through several times a week. His alleged killer is behind bars, charged with 2^nd degree murder.

The community is shocked and appalled, the mayor ordered flags on federal buildings to half mast, and every politician has offered the appropriate thoughts and prayers to the devastated family.

The first rumor, that he had maced a dog on his route and the killing was the owner's revenge was quickly dismissed. The second, that he had tried to intervene in a case of domestic abuse has more staying power but the truth is that the investigation is ongoing and at this point, no one really knows for sure what happened. A black mailman is dead and a wild-eyed, tattooed, meth-addled white man with bad teeth is in jail. The news reports that the shooter's girlfriend is arrested the following day on drug charges.

It's impossible to make sense of a world where you can be shot delivering the mail.

Hattie & The Road Crew

The crew that came to pave the road was prepared to be resented and distrusted. They were ready for the fog that so often would make their work impossible. They were warned they would not be welcomed. But they were not ready for Old Hat and her shotgun.

“I'd have a care,” Sparrow advised the crew foreman, “She's a dead shot. Why, she kin shoot a flea off'n a damn frog at a hunnert yards and she's meaner 'n a cross-eyed snake.”

The foreman shrugged. He'd been building roads for 3o years, he told Sparrow, and he knew a thing or two about doing it.

“They ain't made anybody can stop a dozer or a hot tar spreader,” he said with a careless grin,

“Sure as hell, not one damn fool old woman with a scattergun.”

“I 'spect you know your business,” Sparrow persisted, “Ain't sayin' you don't. But she don't like strangers and she don't like change.”

“Come hell or high water, this here road's gon' be paved by next week,” the foreman said calmly,

“The province says so and that's that.”

“Ayuh,” Sparrow said and winked at us, “Reckon it's your funeral.”

Hattie's first shot bounced harmlessly off the dozer's shovel. Her second whined past the driver's ear. Her third knocked his hard hat off and sent him scurrying for the floorboards. There was no fourth, Sparrow reported to my grandmother.

“That boy give up right and proper once she aimed that shotgun the last time,” he laughed, “He rammed that thing into park and come outta it like a longtailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. Ain't been seen since.”

It couldn't stand, of course, progress was slated for the village and progress it would be. The province was not about to be bullied or put off my one little old lady with a mean temper and a couple of days later the Mounties arrived. Hattie was duly arrested and carted off to the mainland - it was said she fought like a mule and wailed like a banshee - and while she was gone, the road crew returned and quickly finished the paving job. Hattie came home in a fine rage, swearing death and destruction to the province and revenge on anyone who'd helped them but there was no one to go after and she soon wore herself out with threats and temper that no one listened to. By August, she retreated to the shelter of her shack and shotgun and there she stayed. The road had won, albeit on a technicality most folks agreed, since not one inch had ever made it onto Hattie's land. Years later, folks still talked about hearing her old shotgun break the silence of moonlit summer nights as she took potshots at the pavement and cackled with every pull of the trigger. The road may have won, but Old Hat considered it a draw and that was close enough.

Night in the Graveyard

“Dare ya!” one of the Sullivan brothers shouted defiantly.

“Double dare ya!” one of the other brothers added with an unmistakable sneer and a malicious laugh.

And with all the confidence and pride that two stubborn little seven year old girls can muster,

Ruthie and I accepted. We knew if we were caught, we'd likely be grounded for the remainder of the summer – who knew, maybe for several summers to come – but a dare was a dare. We were blessedly sure none of the grownups would understand.

And so it was that by eight o'clock when the light in the lighthouse on Peter's Island came on, we were tucked snugly into one of the upstairs feather beds with the covers up to our chins. We listened to the night birds and the incoming tide and the steady hum of the hydo electric poles for the next three hours, finally creeping out of bed and down the stairs barefoot and hardly daring to breathe. When we got to the kitchen and crossed the linoleum floor directly in front of the sleeping dogs, we moved like molasses, one careful, silent inch at a time. Then we were outside, running like wild animals up the gravel driveway, through the strawberry patch and finally to and across the road to Uncle Willie's pasture. There was a sliver of moon to guide us but otherwise we were stealth itself. The entire village seemed to be asleep, it was eerily still and quiet and when we spoke it was in whispers.

“Car!” Ruthie hissed at me as we passed Curt's shuttered up store and made the turn onto Overcove Road. Like shadows, we dove for the ditch but it was only Hubie and his battered old Volkswagon, making his way home after a night of drinking. He choked and sputtered past us without a glance but we could hear every word of the song he was singing, “Hey, Good Lookin'” by Hank Willliams. The words were clear and sharp on the night air.

“Hubie always could hold his liquor some good,” I whispered to Ruthie once the coast was clear.

“Ayuh,” she whispered back, “But he cain't sing for dogshit!”

We reckoned it was close to midnight when we got to the cemetary but there was no sign of any of the Sullivans. Hearts pounding, we inched open the cemetary gates just enough to squeeze through and cautiously, lightly, carefully walked in among the shadowy gravestones. We could hear each other's fear in our panicky breathing and I think we were both regretting leaving the feather bed for such a foolish and dangerous dare. Could you die of fright, I wondered and thought Ruthie might be wondering the very same thing. An owl hooted and we nearly jumped out of our skins. When something unseen rustled along the tree line and we froze in absolute horrow and desperation.

“Let's go!” I whispered, pulling at her sleeve, “I don't care what they say 'bout us!”

“Don't be such a baby!” she snapped at me, “You'll care in the mornin'!”

I was so scared I wasn't sure there was going to be a morning, but I kept it to myself. Then something slithered by my feet and I let out a small shriek of pure terror. Ruthie caught me square in the jaw with a right hook, hard enough to knock me down, bring me to my frail senses, and pull myself together against the mounting hysteria. She half-pulled, half-dragged me

to the least occupied corner of the graveyard, shoved me roughly down so that my back was to the fence (and to the dark woods, I shuddered at the thought of what fearful, bloody-eyed creature might be hiding in those trees) and setttled down Indian style beside me.

“All we hafta do,” she said with a remarkable calm, “is sit here 'til the sun commences to come up. Then we'll go home the way we come and be in time for breakfast.”

“How we gon' prove to the Sullivans that we was here all night?” I wanted to know.

“We ain't got to prove nothin',” she said grimly, “They'll know allright. They's watchin' and they'll know.”

“But...........” I began and she punched me not so lightly in the ribs.

“Jist sit and shut up,” she told me and moved a little closer, “We gon' be fine and we ain't gonna get caught neither.”

I wasn't convinced but I did sit and shut up. For the next several hours, we sat and shut up, slowly smoking our way through an entire stolen pack of my mother's Parliaments and waiting for sun up. At times it was so deadly quiet that we imagined we could hear the owl smoothing his feathers. At other times, the woods seemed alive with things that crept and crawled and hid and sounded like footsteps.

“Mice,” Ruthie would whisper confidently, “Maybe a fox or a badger. Maybe even a deer.”

I hoped so but I hated how brave she was.

Dawn finally came and the sky began to lighten. There had been no sign of the Sullivans and nothing had come slinking out of the woods to ambush us or do us harm. We had spent a whole night in the graveyard and were just the same as when we went in, then made our way back home the same way we had come and slipped back into the feather bed unnoticed. If it hadn't been for us both coming down with incredibly virulent cases of poison ivy, we might've gotten away with it. Instead, we had nearly a week of vinegar baths, antihistamine shots, and being lathered in calamine lotion daily. In the end, we were so miserable that we confessed, hoping it would somehow ease our suffering. It didn't but Nana didn't have the heart to hand out any additional punishment.

We never did tell the why of it and it earned us the grudging respect of the Sullivans. We were young enough and foolish enough to think it was worth it and at the time, it was.