Strange Times

It’s something of a jolt to realize that self-isolating isn’t all that much different from my usual life. I see Michael every day, get to the grocery and the drugstore once a week, and make semi-regular post office and bank runs but apart from that, unless I’m photographing a music performance or an animal event, I don’t have much interaction with my fellow human beings. I’ve come to think of it as blessing in disguise.

You’d hardly know anything was amiss until you start registering the closed signs and empty parking lots, the deserted streets and abandoned playgrounds. The city is suddenly quieter, barren almost like some film noir street scene. With the bars and restaurants and casinos shut down, downtown is desolate after five o’clock and even the riverfront is eerily still and silent.

A handful of coffee shops and delicatessens are still offering curbside takeout but more give up every day. The brewery where I spend do much time photographing musicians closes along with the few museums and art galleries we have, art and music festivals that have survived for years are canceled, the grocery stores cut their hours and begin rationing, some of the banks go to half days. All public schools are closed and there’re rumors they may not re-open at all this year. Any gathering of 50 or more people is prohibited and there’s beginning to be talk of curfews and martial law. We seems to be caught between a war zone and a plague novel. I spend my time telling myself not to panic but not too far below the surface is the fear that life as we’ve always known it, will never be the same. Everything we have taken for granted for all of our lives suddenly feels fragile and at risk. I’m feeling desperate for someone to blame.

At just past 7 in the morning, the grocery store is unusually crowded and for the first time I have a sense - just a hint, but enough to make me notice – of desperation and disaster. The familiar faces I see every week are strained and the smiles I’ve come to expect are forced. The shoppers, most in masks and protective clothing, dodge and weave through the aisles, snatching at the shelves and avoiding each other as best they can. The paper goods aisle is completely gutted – not a roll of tissue paper or paper towels or even a box of kleenex to be had. Each cash register features a prominent list of those items that are purchase-limited. Clearly stressed out managers are manning the check out lines and doing their best to soothe irate customers. This is a high end grocery store and heated arguments over who saw it first are pretty much foreign. It feels like dread.

I add low dose aspirin, Metamucil, and Ghirardelli caramel squares to my cart of cat and dogfood and litter and decide I can make do without anything I’ve forgotten. A line from Prairie Home Companion runs through my mind – “Fred’s Pretty Good Grocery, If we don’t have it, you can probably live without it.” Later I will make a 2^nd run for diet coke and cigarettes but for now I find I just want to be home with my animals and away from the craziness we have brought into our lives.

Staying in Your Lane

The town I grew up in was divided roughly into three sections – The Heights, where the money and privilege and bound-to-be-successful lived, The East, mostly single family homes, mostly middle to lower class, and The East End, a down at the heels section on the Cambridge line where the homes were mostly triple deckers and very close to poor. Not everyone spoke English in The East End, the families were almost always renters rather than home owners, and the whole shabby neighborhood was dark and smoky and smelled of cooking grease. Those from The East might hurriedly pass through it on their way to the better sections of Cambridge. Those from The Heights barely acknowledged its existence.

Much to the dismay of my mother, I had a half dozen friends who lived in The East End (we all went to The East Junior High) and only one who lived in the Heights, and went to The West Junior High. We would all be thrown unceremoniously together for high school but 7^th and 8^th grade were (and still are) two very different schools, two different neighborhoods, and two very distinct classes of society. My mother, an only child of relatively well off parents and fond of telling anyone who would listen that she had married beneath her, did her best to keep me from my lesser friends. We clashed often and sometimes violently and my daddy often had to step in to restore some sort of order. He hadn’t much enthusiasm for it.

June was my closet East End friend. She was tall and lean and long legged, the captain of the girls basketball team and the closest thing to a star athlete that we had. She and I had been friends since elementary school when status and zip codes didn’t matter so much. She came from a raucous and sprawling Italian family with four older brothers and a grandmother who spoke only her native language and her third floor home was always crowded and noisy with friends and family and music and an assortment of dogs and cats.

By comparison, my friend Dawn lived in a two story brick house just off Pleasant Street with a circular driveway, manicured lawn, three car garage and a sour-faced housekeeper. Nobody ever played the grand piano in the formal living room and the entire house had a sterile feel to it, even Dawn’s room was pastel’d and antiqued and un-lived in. Her collection of stuffed animals was arranged in a neat row on a shelf above her four poster bed but it was clear they were never loved or played with. Things in Dawn’s house were for show, not for handling and but for the fact that her family and mine went to the same Baptist church, we’d never have been friends to begin with.

High school brought very few changes – the natural order of things continued. Dawn and her crowd were cheerleaders and debate club members, honor students and class presidents, homecoming royalty and prom stars. June and her friends were athletes, got good but unnoticed grades and sang in the chorus. Dawn and her crowd drove shiny new convertible cars and June and her friends took the bus. The haves and the have nots kept to their own lanes and no one questioned the way things worked. And then, one unsuspecting spring, there was a fire at the high school and half the buildings went up in flames. It meant split sessions for the remainder of the school year – half of us left for school in the dark, half of us came home in the dark. None of us were happy and we never saw that it might’ve been an opportunity to build a bridge rather than another wall.

There are times when I think how little has changed.

The Devil's Work

I can feel myself slipping into the black mood. It’s like a veil wrapping ‘round me, tangled and thick and very troublesome. We are starting a fourth day of rain and cold, raw temperatures. I’m cabin fevered weary of gray skies and gutters filled with dirty water. And stupidity. Especially stupidity.

It starts with the letter carrier leaving a bundle of mail and a package of photographs tossed indifferently onto the cement of the front porch during a rainstorm. It’s not the first time the lazy, inept and dull witted cow has done this but it’s the first time there were professional photographs in the mix. Through a supervisor, she denies it and I flat out call her a liar and come perilously close to losing my temper. I have a strong sense that this is not the first time someone has complained about her and her supervisor assures me she’ll have a serious sit down with her as soon as she reports to work. Oddly enough, I don’t hear anything further and for some mysterious reason, we receive no mail delivery. When I called to report her, there was a “greater than one hour “ wait time. It told me all I needed to know about the state of the US mail service.

The second war is with the scandal ridden water department. The water pressure crashes unexpectedly and it takes over two hours to reach them. They tell me that they’re unable to reach the service department and give me the number to call directly to see is there’s a water main break in the neighborhood. Another hour and a half of trying to reach the service people and I call the mayor’s office. There, I’m referred back to the water department who – only after I press and press hard – own up to the fact that we’ve been disconnected for non-payment. I suggest that they might’ve shared this information with me when I first called and I can practically hear them shrugging. They’re open until 5:30. so they tell me grudgingly, but when I get there at 5 minutes after 4, they’re closed. Liars and thieves, the whole lot of them, I tell the deputies who refuse to let me in. They’re sympathetic but unmoved.

The next morning I leave early and take care of the water bill. That afternoon we have a new mail carrier who has no trouble locating and using the mail slot. I doubt we’ve turned a corner but it’s possible we’re at least on the right street. I was on my way up and out of the darkness when Michael pointed out to me that the trash hadn’t been picked up the day before. I suggested he likely hadn’t put it to the curb in time but that only fanned the flames so I shrugged and said I’d call. In the next couple of minutes, rather than just apologize and say they’d come get it as they always have in the past, the sanitation department upped their game and I found myself in a heated argument about whether we were a business or a residence. I learned all about their “commercial customer list”, about how the trucks wouldn’t pick up if they thought we were a business, and about how the poor, undeserving civil servants at City Hall were abused. She wanted to know if we had a sign on the property and then said that we certainly had a large parking lot for a residence. She had called us up on Google she informed me with more than a hint of self-righteousness and a definite “see what I can do” tone.

“There’s no damn sign on the property,” I snapped, “and the parking lot isn’t even our’s!, it belongs to the medical building next door! Why are you making this a federal case? All I need is for the damn trash to be picked up!”

This earned me a second lecture on sanitation department policies and procedures. It was futile to point out that we’d been at our current address for several years now and it being a residence or business had never mattered before. Bureaucracy, as a friend of mine recently remarked, is the Devil’s work.

Pride and Paint

How hard could it be to make a text-only meme, I said to myself when Michael handed me a sticky not with some writing on it. Just make a post with a colored background – people I absolutely know aren’t as smart as I am are doing them, I said to myself. And that, dear friends, is pride.

It goes before a fall every time.

Some five hours later as I finally give up in complete and utter disgust and have to once again call on my tech-savy friend, Charli, for rescue, I am close to homicidal. It takes her less than 5 minutes to come up with exactly what I’m needing. She sends it to me and I send it on to Michael. Given the choice of being grateful or complaining that he doesn’t like the colors, he opts for the latter. Charli sends me a scathing text about beggars being choosers and I regretfully tell her she’s absolutely right. The man is a text book case of expecting to be catered to. I send him a second meme and he likes it. I am still bitter and angry about my own lack of tech-saviness and although it’s against my better judgment, I go back to the fool paint program Charli has sent me to and try again. She has also reminded me that I am not a graphic artist and advised me against beating myself up about it. It’s kind of her but it doesn’t do much good.

After another nearly two hours of teeth gnashing and turning the air around me blue with cursing, I manage to actually come up with something. I save the image as instructed and look in downloads as instructed but while the file is there, the image isn’t. I start over another dozen times and finally realize that it’s a bad file format – I’ve been saving to PNG when I should’ve been saving to JPEG. I have no idea what this actually means but I do recognize it as the problem. Astonishingly, I try one final time and lo and behold, it works. I am dumbstruck, exhausted, and three quarters blind. And yet, there is a feeling of triumph that I can’t quite get past.

Take that you son-of-a-bitchin’ technology.

The Adventures of Crystal

My friend Michael has been out of town for three days. In that small amount of time, I have retrieved or confiscated the following from the new dog, a young and wildly puppy-ish pit bull mix named Crystal.

3 throw pillows

1 copy paperback edition of “So You Want To Be A Model”

2 sheets postage stamps

1 luggage tag

1 box Papermate black fine point ballpoint pens

1 tube Elmer’s Glue

1 hair brush

1 container non-dairy creamer

1 sofa cushion

4 rolls toilet paper

1 tube Rembrant whitening toothpaste

1 Shell credit card

1 pair Geoffrey Beene mens briefs

1 spatula

1 package of light bulbs

1 bag peppermint candies

I pair Armani mens black dress shoes

2 and ½ pair Calvin Klein socks

3/4 box manilla file folders

1 cell phone charger cord

1 pack cinnamon Altoids

1 retractable dog leash

1 portable flashlight

1 bag peanut butter cups

1 whisk broom

1 package of shoelaces

1 fringed lamp shade

1 plastic Sweet Tea bottle

3 ketchup packets

1 box of Sweet & Low

1 package of coffee filters

2 dishtowels

1 scrubber kitchen sponge

2 pairs of flip flops

1 artificial ivy plant

1 wicker waste basket

1 3 ring binder

1 tube of vita lip mint oil

We have been Crystal-Lized.

Another Mouth to Feed

“You're not going to like this.....” my friend Michael began as he pulled on his coat and gloves and fumbled with his keys, “But I just can't let her be sent to the pound.”

“Who?” I asked but knew that it didn't matter. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me our already overrun household was about to be added to once again. A friend had picked up a dog running the streets - a young, three quarters starved and friendly female pit bull - animal control had been called and Michael unraveled at the thought of her being sent to them.

Futile as I knew it would be, I pointed out the obvious. He already had four, aggressive and unhousebroken dogs. The entire house looked like a landfill and reeked like an outhouse. He couldn't afford the care and feeding as it was, to add a 5^th dog was lunacy. She was bound to be in heat and full of worms. The love of dogs and his tenderheartedness notwithstanding, he was certifiable if he took her in. He was inviting mayhem. His dogs would kill her or she would kill one of them. I went on and on like a broken record but from the start I knew I'd lost.

“Take a leash and a collar,” I finally told him, “And a blanket or a couple of towels.”

“It's temporary,” he assured me, “Just until I can figure out what to do with her.”

Famous last words, I thought dismally.

A week in and it's even worse than I feared. She is, no doubt about it, sweet natured and amiable. She gets along with the other dogs reasonably well and I'm happy to have been wrong about that, at least so far. She's not a wild, frantic barker, which is a relief because one more would surely have pushed me over the edge. But she is a jumper-upper and hasn't a single clue about being house trained. How one medium sized dog can produce that many piles of dogshit is a mystery to me.

My first time caring for her when Michael leaves town is sketchy. As best I can determine, she likes to sleep and play under and around my desk so when I walk in, the desk lamp is on the floor and all the power to all the electronics has been unplugged. Another pillow has has been raggedly unstuffed and its contents strewn about the room. Not to be outdone, the yellow cur dog has broken through the barrier to get to the stash of paper towels and toilet paper in the bathroom and someone, I suspect the little pit, has overturned not one but two trash cans and left chewed up, plastic dog food containers spread from one end of the house to the other. The old pit gives me a sorrowful look, his innocent brown eyes are very convincing and the littlest one, the long haired chihuahua who is perched imperiously on the top of the couch, yawns and gives me her best “I had nothing to do with any of this” look.

There are days when I feel exactly the same way.

Waiting on Reality

After over a month of seductively warm temperatures, the last day of the year dawns with brilliant blue skies, bright sun, and a serious nip in the air. It's not even 40 degrees when I head out to turn off the porch lights at Tricia's. She's been gone six weeks now and there are times when I think the dreadful reality of her death still hasn't hit me. I know it the way you know the abstract things in life, things that are but don't really affect you so you don't give them much thought except in principle.

There was no shock at Tricia's death. In retrospect, I'd watched her dying for the better part of six months but the part of me that knew what I was seeing and the part that refused to accept it never did come to terms. My friend, Jean, was going through the aftermath of cancer treatment at the same time and I didn't feel like I could deal with the possibility of them both succumbing so I brought milkshakes and soft biscuits and hot soups and tried to be positive. After one particularly grim visit with Tricia, I remember Michael asking me if I thought she was sick enough to die and the question cut me like a knife. Yes, I'd finally told him, I think she is. But the thought was excruciatingly painful and I refused to dwell on it. Funny how the the thought of someone you love dying can bring out the selfishness in us. I wasn't completely aware of it at the time, but I spent a lot of time denying it to spare myself the pain. In a strange and sad kind of way, I suppose it prepared me for what I knew was inevitable. I had a long time to get used to the idea of her being gone and yet I still don't know it for certain.

Christmas and the New Year come and go and then it's January 2^nd, Tricia's birthday. She would have been 73. I stand in the small space off the kitchen, empty now but not long ago converted into a kind of quasi-sick room with a couch and her recliner and a couple of end tables for her laptop and phone and cigarettes. A huge print of Andy Warhol's ketchup bottle hangs on the wall and there's a makeshift entertainment center on the opposite wall with a row of books she never got around to reading and a neat stack of DVD's she never got around to watching. I remembered that once she'd gotten settled into this small and improvised space, she hadn't had the strength or energy to do either. I also remembered that she'd hurt all the time, her ankles had swelled to the size of medium tree limbs and she was always cold despite a pile of blankets and pillows and a portable heater the girls had brought her. The most shocking thing had been the weight loss which had turned rapidly into emaciation. Everything tasted metallic, she'd told me once, or went through her like grease through a goose. She was dehydrated and so frail and bruised that she seemed transparent. The girls bought her a walker to get to and from the bathroom but sometimes she was so weak and exhausted that she couldn't manage the stairs, even with help, and would sleep in the chair. By early November, a strong wind would've carried her away and the only time she left the house was for a doctor's visit or a trip to the ER. She absolutely hated her body's betrayal, particularly as her mind was still sharp and always racing. She worried about all the thing she was leaving undone and was frustrated beyond words at being helpless and dependent on others. On the rare occasions we talked about dying, she was restless and weary and at her core, very angry, but what she never seemed to be was frightened.

Dying is not always easy or peaceful and the distraction of the unknown can only make it worse. Whether her faith saw her through or she was too ill to care, I don't know. I only know that we all wished desperately we could ease her pain. As a general rule, I despise people who tell me that death is a blessing, myself included, recovery and freedom from pain and continuing life would be the real blessing. I only concede that death may be a mercy.

I miss those usually short and sweet daily emails. It was how we kept up with each other and made sure each was above ground and breathing. We would share the insignificant details of our days from medical updates to silly dog stories to who we had run into at the grocery store to the latest neighborhood scandals. On the rare day we didn't write a line or two, I still felt secure knowing she was just walking distance away. And though I didn't stop and visit often enough, she knew a phone call would've brought me running with cigarettes or a Sonic shake or a box of chicken and biscuits from Popeye's. Looking back, I wish I'd brought her something every damn day.

Cat,Rat, Possom, Coon

Once again, something has taken up residence in the garage. The little dachshund is frantic to find it and show me but so far, his efforts have produced nothing. He eases though the dog door and almost immediately begins a Hallelujah Chorus of barking but by the time I get there with my trusty flashlight, whatever he has seen has taken refuge out of sight and out of reach. We've been here before and I don't doubt him. Some creature - rat, cat, possom, coon – has taken shelter within the ramshackle walls and I suppose it's up to me to make sure it isn't injured or sick or inviting in the entire neighborhood.

The garage is a combination hoarder's heaven and landfill. I've never gotten around to having it properly cleaned out and over the years, it's taken on a life of its own. It's crammed with old carpet and leftover paint cans, plastic bags of clothing I meant to donate, bits of fencing and moldy cardboard boxes, motheaten blankets, empty detergent bottles and assorted trash and debris from the previous owners - in other words, a perfect refuge for whatever stray creatures wander by.

After work, when the light is better, the little dachshund and I and steal stealthily into the chaos to recconnoiter and see what we can find. He is fearless, crawling and climbing through, under, over and around all obstacles into every nook and cranny and hidden place he can find. I am more cautious, exquisitely aware of the unknown and tense with anxiety that something could suddenly fly at me from the shadows. We search for the better part of 10 minutes but come up with nothing. Whatever was there that morning has, apparently, moved on, at least for now. The little dachshund is dispirited but stubborn and it takes several more minutes to convince him to give up the hunt. I am profoundly relieved not to have found a litter of kittens or some ill tempered, unpredictable wild creature with teeth and talons and after another uneventful few days, interest in the garage fades. It's re-ignited on a warm, rainy Sunday morning right after Christmas when I trudge out with a basketful of laundry and am confronted by a surprised and none too friendly, red eyed squirrel. He does not appreciate my intrusion any more than I appreciate his presence and for a few unpleasant moments we are caught in a standoff. Then the little dachshund arrives to save the day - he comes tearing in, barking furiously and ready to take on an army and the squirrel retreats quickly, ducking under the clutter and disappearing behind a row of paint cans. The little dachshund tries to follow but the mountain of debris is more than he can manage. He has to settle for the partial victory of scaring off the intruder and letting loose a stream of verbal abuse, all delivered in true hound fashion, deep and raspy and unmistakenly, unconditionally hostile. When it comes to trespassers, there can be no question of his authority or responsibility. I scoop up all 10 pounds of him, tell him what a good boy he is, and carry him back into the yard. The little Yorkie, who has watched all this from the safe neutrality of the deck - without feeling the need to get involved, I might say - erupts in a flurry of yapping and frantic congratulations and both dogs trot proudly off toward the back fence. Just to be sure that the squirrel isn't planning a comeback, I suppose, or maybe they just need to pee. At any rate, we are all safe and secure for another day.

The Man in the Gray Fedora

The man in the gray fedora climbs the steps of the bus carefully, one white knuckled hand gripping the handrail, the other holding his walking stick. He deposits a handful of coins into the machine and then navigates to a seat directly across from me, flares his ankle length yellow slicker with an enthusiastic shake and sends a spray of rainwater in every direction. Across the aisle, he meets my eyes and gives me a wicked, deliberate wink. I don't intend to smile back but it's a reflex and I've done it without thinking. He adjusts the fedora, tucks his beard inside the collar of his slicker and laughs outloud. The woman next to him lowers her eyes and slides discreetly a little away from him. I'm sure she's thinking what I am - he looks harmless enough but these are strange times and you have to be careful - Lord only knows what might be hidden beneath the drover style raincoat or behind those innocently twinkling brown eyes.

By the time we cross the line into Cambridge, the rain has turned to snow and for Christmas Eve, there's barely any traffic. It's still light when we reach Harvard Square, not exactly deserted but looking a lot like an early Sunday morning. A handful of last minute shoppers are still leaving the Coop and the pretzel man is still hawking his wares by the entrance to the subway. A snow covered quartet of street musicians is caroling “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the corner and you can hear church bells from the Harvard Yard. A lone Salvation Army Santa stands next to the newspaper stand, looking more than ready to call it a day. The banks of the river are pristine with fresh, undisturbed snow and on Cambridge Common, the nativity scene glows in a soft light. There are even live reindeer peacefully grazing and the whole scene has a postcard feel to it. It's what my daddy would call sleigh ride weather.

The bus skids and sways into its designated area and the driver expertly shifts gears and comes to a stop. The passengers are already out of their seats and in line to depart as he pulls a lever and with a gentle whoosh, the doors open.

“Watch your step, please,” he calls out as they pass, “Use the handrails and watch your step, please!”

“Merry Christmas!” some call back as they make their way out and he nods and smiles.

It's then I notice that the man in the gray fedora is not only not in line but also not in his seat nor, for that matter, anywhere on the bus. It's bewildering because we had been only a few feet apart and he couldn't possibly have gotten off without my seeing yet the fact is, he isn't here. I collect my umbrella and packages, rewind my scarf around my neck, pull my gloves back on,

and slowly leave the bus. It's almost full dark by now and still snowing and there's no sign of a man in a yellow slicker and gray fedora. I stop at the newstand long enough to buy an evening paper and a cup of hot chocolate then cross the street to the Common to catch the Pleasant Street bus which will take me very nearly to my grandmother's doorstep. According to the clock atop the subway entrance, I'm already fashionably late so I shrug off the mystery of the man in the gray fedora and concentrate on avoiding the icy patches of sidewalk in front of me.

The Common is ablaze with colored Christmas lights, strung through the fence, twined on the street lamps and hung on every tree and shrub. I can hear the chorus of “Unto Us A Child Is Born” coming from the old church and someone is kindly feeding the reindeer, someone in a yellow rain slicker and a gray fedora. Imagination, I tell myself instantly, I'll close my eyes and when I open them it'll be just some overworked and good hearted volunteer from the Humane Society. But when I open my eyes, all I see are the reindeer, milling around the nativity scene in two's and three's, pawing at the snow and looking a little like magical creatures from a Christmas story.

Maybe they were.

A Guest of the Hotel

The first time I saw him, he was half asleep in a metal chair outside the hotel, sitting quietly in the late morning sunshine, a cap pulled over his eyes and a wooden cane resting against his leg. I know a photograph when I see one but I was late and trying to manage an armful of camera, notebooks, clipboards and purse so I didn't stop. He wasn't the corporate type and likely didn't have a half pressing appointments - if I was really lucky, he'd still be there when I left - so I hurried past.

An hour or so later, as I was just sitting and waiting for the meeting to break up, I saw him again. He came through the automatic doors, moving slowly and carefully, exchanged a few words with the uniformed staff at the door, then made his way through the lobby and all the way to the restroom. Several minutes later, he was back in the lobby. He sank into a chair across from the registration counter and settled himself. He was clearly not a hotel guest, I realized, and though I suspected he might be wearing everything he owned, he was not a pan handler either. He simply say quietly in the shadows, still and silent. None of the hotel staff approached or bothered him, the guests passed him without a second glance, he might as well have been part of the décor and I couldn't stand it any longer – I shouldered my Nikon and crossed the lobby. It's not something I do all the time but sometimes the draw of a particular face is more temptation than I can stand. I rely on my instincts in these situations – whether and how to ask, whether and how to offer money – I trust my senses and try always to be respectful.

“Hello,” I said and sat down across from him, “You have such a great face. Would it be alright if I took your picture?”

He didn't speak but he did nod ever so slightly and when I smiled and said thank you, he gave me a look that was part surprised, part flattered, and part mischief. He was 73, he told me, healthy as a horse except for his macular degeneration and a touch of arthritis. Not all the hotels were as kind as this one, he confided - some took a dim view of his using their mensrooms or lobbies and would chase you away - but the Hilton folks were always kind to him. He almost smiled as he said this, as if we were sharing a secret.

“Long as you don't make any trouble,” he added in a stage whisper.

“Thank you,” I said, “You take care of yourself.”

“You do the same,” he told me and tipped his cap, "Merry Christmas."

I hope I see him again.

Gifts and Gratitude

The Christmas tree is decorated and lighted, the stockings are hung, the cat has been re-homed to a new family that will love and care for her. The girls have begun the long and excruciating process of going through their mother's things – a monumental task and one that will take months and every ounce of their combined courage and strength – and ever so slowly, I am getting used to the reality that one of my dearest friends is gone. It keeps surprising me and I retreat from the idea, a little numb from the loss and a little guilty that I didn't do more when she was here. Someone suggests that we all feel that way when it's a close and longtime friend, it's natural if not rational, but my mind isn't quite clear enough yet to comprehend it all. I used to email her every other day or so and I find myself still thinking about what I'll tell her today or tomorrow. Then I remember that she won't answer and a quick, sharp, unexpected stab of pain goes through my heart. It's reality, taking its time to be sure, but firmly reminding me who's in charge. It's futile, I know, but every instinct I have wants to challenge it and fight back.

We studied Kubler-Ross in college and the 7 Stages of Grief has always made perfect sense to me, but when you find yourself actually going through them, it's not quite as clear. It seems to be a matter of two steps forward and three steps back and at times I still find myself forgetting that certain people are dead. I hear a joke or read a book or discover a new restaurant and I think, Oh, so and so would enjoy this, I need to call him or her. Then I remember they're gone and curse reality.

The first time we met it was over dinner at a local restaurant. Tricia and my husband were working together on a project for the Chamber of Commerce and they had agreed that their respective spouses ought to meet. I didn't know what it was like for her but for me it was stunningly painful – I was a northerner from the other side of the tracks, married into money and perpetually uncomfortable in my role, shy to the point of reclusiveness. She was poised and confident and outgoing and beautiful and I clearly remember being shocked by the fact that she had kept her maiden name, common and quite unremarkable now but outrageously radical and

suspicious 45 years ago. She later told me that getting me to say more than a word or two had been like pulling teeth. Lord only knows why she decided I was worth it – I'd have written me off as a meek, little mouse in a completely inappropriate marriage and not given it a second thought but she persisted. I doubt either one of us knew we would form a bond of unshakeable friendship and love.

One of the things I have learned about life is that If it's not wrapped and ribboned, we often don't recognize the moment we are given a precious gift.

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.