Darcy and Me

The message on the ListServe caught my attention:

Eighteen month-old male beagle-- full of verve and joy--all shots. He is ready to move in with you right now! Be ready for active and playful! He is yours for the asking. His name is Snoopy

We piled in the car with Arlo (our spoiled Samoyed) to meet Snoopy at the Annandale Animal Hospital. “We’re here to meet Snoopy.” The Vet’s employees were perturbed because their lunch had been interrupted. Begrudgingly, Hazel (the least perturbed) brought out Snoopy so everyone could get acquainted.

It was not love at first sight. If Arlo could talk he would have said “Mama, get me out of here. This beagle is crazy.”

I would have agreed.

It was a sad trio that left Annandale Animal Hospital as Hazel led the wildly barking beagle back to his puppy jail.

We decided to make a stop at the Lost Dog and Cat Rescue Open House on the way home where we made our way through a plethora of beagles. “Did I miss the news about the beagle population explosion?” I asked. I was about to give up when I saw a timid liver spotted Dalmatian. “Look, Honey! She’s not too large, not too small…she’s just right!!” Darcy the Dalmatian had a very sad story. Her owner had gone to jail and Darcy had missed being put to sleep by just a few hours. Since November 2nd she had been living in an animal shelter. Most people want puppies. Darcy was three years old.

John and Arlo looked skeptical. They hadn’t seen what I had seen. It wasn’t looking good. Sadly I followed John and Arlo back to the parking lot where John saw the sad, sad expression on my face.

“Oh, alright! Go get her.”

That’s how Darcy came to live with her new family where she will live happily ever after.

Point Lookout

We pulled in behind the old blue pickup truck and unloaded our fishing gear. Poles first, then bait board, then knife. The bait came out last. Spot and bunker. I scrambled down the rocks, glad that I had worn my old moccasins instead of my flip-flops. I settled down on the warm rocks and looked out at the Chesapeake Bay while John rigged his poles – two of them – and cut bait. While he was finishing up I walked up to the blue truck to say hello to its occupant.

We had talked a bit the day before. Just “How’s the fishing?” and “Where are you from?” kind of talk. He'd told us he lived in Stafford, Virginia. Neither John nor I mentioned we had two homes and that we were spending the weekend in our home in Solomon’s. That would have sounded like bragging even if it wasn’t.

“I brought that picture I told you about yesterday.” He followed me back to our truck. I opened the back door and pulled out the copy of the Bay Times open to page 24. John grinned up at us. He was holding a 43” rockfish, its weight evident in his face. This was bragging.

I realized we hadn’t introduced ourselves. I held out my hand. “I’m Brenda.”

He took my hand. “I’m Ed"

Ed pointed across the causeway to the spot where a young boy was fishing. “That’s my great grandson Trevor. He caught a couple with that Shakespeare I bought him and now he’s an expert.”

Ed and I walked around to the back of our truck where John was ready to fish. His first cast was awkward. Unaccustomed to fishing from rocks, his cast was off-balance. Ed took note. “I heard it hit behind you.” John nodded and began to reel in. The second cast was better. John stuck the rod in the pole holder he has wedged in the rocks and baited his second pole. Ed and I watched as he made a good cast on his first try.

When John had secured the second pole, I pointed to my kayak. “How about helping me get this down so I can go for a paddle.” Together we loosened the straps that held my orange and yellow “Pungo” to the roof of the pickup and lowered it to the ground. He helped me walk it across the causeway so I could launch it – right behind the sign that said “No Swimming – No Boat Launching”

“There’s chicken in the cooler” I called over my shoulder as I glided away from where he stood on the shore. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?” he shouted to my back. “Eventually” I replied as I pointed the nose of my kayak toward the pines on the other side of the cove.

Creek of Peace

“I’m here to take you bone fishing for free.”

We hadn’t expected him. I had called to cancel the trip. The night before an intruder had robbed us. We had no money, no passports. I'd spent the last three hours cancelling credit cards.

Now Ansil Saunders stood before us – a wiry brown man with white, white teeth and strong hands. He smiled showing all of his teeth and brushed the events away with a swish of his hand.

“I will take you for free.”

We followed him like children to his big American car that seemed out of place on an island where most people traveled by golf cart. The thief had made his escape in a golf cart. – putting up the narrow Queen’s Highway along the rocky beach.

We were quiet as Ansil drove us to the spot here his boat was tied. It was a beautiful boat – wooden – made with his own strong hands.

“Do you have any hardboiled eggs or bananas…those are very bad luck on a boat, you know” We had neither but his words reminded us how hungry we were. We hadn’t had breakfast. As if reading our thoughts, he pointed to the picnic basket beside the boat. It was filled with fruit, bread and water.

Ansil guided us through the mangroves. My mind fidgeted but my eyes found his hands and they focused there. I watched as his hands on the oars guided the wooden boat through the mangroves. Soon my mind joined my eyes and forgot to worry. I was present. For the rest of the day Ansil guided us through the shallow waters, through the mangroves as we tried to put the events of the previous night behind us and concentrate on spotting the nearly invisible bonefish. We quickly learned that the best approach was to stop trying to see the fish ourselves and to just cast where and when Ansil pointed. When we did that, we caught fish.

Ansil brought us to an open space in the mangrove. “They call this Bonefish Hole...” I looked around. I saw no hole and I saw no bonefish. He continued “…but I call this Dr. King’s Creek of Peace.” Ansil went on to tell us about the first time he brought Martin Luther King to Bonefish Hole. Dr. King had come to Bimini at the invitation of Adam Clayton Powell for a rest and to work on his acceptance speed for the Nobel Peace Prize. He had spent the day with Ansil not for bonefishing, but for relaxation. I wondered how long it had taken his mind to stop fidgeting and focus with his eyes on Ansil’s strong hands.

Ansil stood in the bow of his boat resting his chin on his oar. Then, with one arm, he gestured to the sky, the water, and the mangroves. “Dr. King asked me what I told people who came here and still doubted the existence of God. I told him I didn’t have an answer for him then, but I would when he returned to Bimini.”

Ansil kept his promise. He wrote a Psalm. The next time Dr. King visited Bimini Ansil had an answer for him. While John and I sat in the back of his boat in the middle of Dr. King’s Creek of Peace, Ansil recited for us the Psalm he had written for Dr. King. “…and God made the fish that swim in the ocean, the cows the graze on the hillside and the stars the shine in the sky…” As he spoke he gestured to the Ocean, the shore and the sky. I knew that no one could sit in that boat in that beautiful space and watch this beautiful brown man reciting this psalm that had sprung from his soul and doubt the existence of God.

That was Martin Luther King’s last trip to Bimini. A short time later he went to Memphis where he was shot to death.

I Always Thought I'd See You Again

Bertie lived with her mama Lilly Mae and six younger brothers and sisters. The youngest was an infant, which accounted for the smell of urine that hit you like a wall when you walked into Bertie’s apartment. I got used to it after a few breaths.

Bertie and I were the same – only she was prettier. Her hair was straight and Lilly Mae let her wear makeup. But Bertie smelled poor – just like me – and when we got on the school bus together, the “others” could smell the poverty on us. We sat together and talked about other places and other people – the ones we saw on television mostly. Our favorite shows were Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey. She loved Richard Chamberlain. I preferred Vince Edwards. We ignored the “others” and retreated into our own private space. Sometimes we sang together, ignoring the looks, the smirks, and the gestures from the “others”. We were a ragged army of two against the perfectly dressed villager army.

On weekends we rode the city bus down town where we shopped for clothes we couldn’t afford. Sometimes we put them on lay-away but we never took them home. In the summer we rode the bus to Ocean View Amusement Park. Bertie flirted with the boys on the boardwalk and they flirted with her. I watched. They ignored me.

I saw Bertie for the last time on a Saturday in the summer of 1963. We took the bus downtown to see a movie and Bertie insisted on seeing two.

“Let’s go see one more. I want to see Bye Bye Birdie.” It was playing just across the street.

“Bertie Mae, that will make us late getting home and besides, I’ve got just enough money left to get home.”

“Come on. I’ll pay for it. You can pay me back.”

We went to the second show. When we walked out of the theatre onto Granby Street it was dark.

“We should have been home hours ago,” I moaned. “I hope mama and daddy aren’t worried.” I couldn’t call them because we didn’t have a telephone.

“Hell. Lilly Mae won’t even know I’m gone,” she said as we boarded the bus.

When I got home all hell broke loose.

“Where have you been?” mama screamed. “We thought you had been murdered.” Daddy nodded. He was awake and sober. That was unusual, I thought. They must really have been worried.

They had called Aunt Gladys from the payphone at the rental office and she was there too.

"Don’t you know any better than to go traipsing around downtown Norfolk at night by yourself?”

“I wasn’t by myself. Bertie Mae was with me.”

Addie and Willis were sitting there quietly – but they had been crying. I knew I was in trouble but at the same time I was pleased that my absence had created such drama. I wondered how Bertie was making out.

Mama and Aunt Gladys took turns yelling at me for a while. They seemed to enjoy being on the same side of an argument for a change. Daddy went to bed without saying much. Willis and Addie fell asleep on the couch – both sucking their thumbs – ok for Willis – He was only two, but Addie was almost 11.

Aunt Gladys finally changed the subject. “Well, Frankie Mae, I’m going to go down to Belhaven tomorrow to check on Mama and Blanche.”

“Can I go, Aunt Gladys? I haven’t seen Grandmama in ages."

Before Mama could object, Aunt Gladys nodded.

“We’ll be back Monday or Tuesday.”

I ran to grab a few things from the room I shared with Addie, returned to the living room and sat quietly in daddy’s chair hoping Aunt Gladys would be ready to leave before Mama changed her mind or Addie woke up and insisted on coming along.

I don’t remember the trip to Belhaven but I remember the day I got back. As soon as I could I ran over to Bertie's to see it she had gotten into trouble for being late.

I knocked. When no one answered I pushed open the door and walked upstairs. The apartment was empty – only the smell of urine remained. The furniture was gone.

Florida

Open Wide, originally uploaded by imustwrite.

Dr. Rapasardi worked for the Palm Beach County Mental Health Department. His office was in a green-shingled WWII vintage bungalow adjacent to the airport. Our sessions were often interrupted by the sound of planes landing and taking off.

“I was in a plane crash once” he told me as a jet passed low over his office.

“Have you flown since?”

“Sure.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” There was nothing to suggest fearlessness in his delicate five foot frame.

“No. What are my chances of being in two plane crashes?”

It was at that point I decided Dr. Rapasardi was either crazier than I was or too sane to help me.

Life as Nursery Rhyme

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
So she gave them some broth without any bread
And thrashed them all soundly and put them to bed.

The old woman’s name was Frankie Mae. But she wasn’t really old. She was weary. And she didn’t have so many children – only three. But she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t really live in a shoe. She didn’t even wear shoes most of the time. Too many bunions and broken toes. She lived in a clapboard house on a creek where the plumbing didn’t work and the cupboard was bare. (I think that’s another nursery rhyme where Old Mother Hubbard’s dog goes hungry.) Frankie Mae’s children had a dog. His name was Waggles. Waggles fended for himself just as the children did. The thrashing was real. Spanking. Whipping. Switching. Frankie Mae used her hand most of the time but when the punishment was pre-meditated or when her hand was sore from previous spankings she made her children go out and cut switched from one of the fruit trees in the back yard. The children often went to bed hungry and crying and too tired to dream. When the oldest child grew up she made sure she never had a bare cupboard. She never had any children either. She didn’t live in a shoe but she owned lots of shoes. She had a pair of dogs that ate much better than she and her siblings ate when they were children. She never went to bed hungry. While she watched what she ate the rest of the day, just before she went to bed she became the little girl who went to bed each night with an empty belly and she would raid the refrigerator before she turned out the lights and went to bed.

We Rise

In my dream I am climbing a spiral staircase along with scores of other people. We are all rising. As we loop around the staircase we face each other briefly. Sometimes we smile and nod. I recognize a face. When I wake up I can’t remember the identity of the person I faced so briefly – just the sense of loss. The person had died. I don’t know how I knew that. In my dream I regret I had not known him better. We all continue to climb. I feel a kinship with the others on the stairway. I am struck that we are all climbing up – all rising. No one is descending. When I wake up the dream stays with me. I remember the sense of loss and an intention to not lose anyone else. Not to let anyone go ignored. I live in a big city. I pass hundreds of faces every day. On the street, in the Metro, on elevators. All of us anonymous. All of us kin. The tragedy at Virginia Tech hasn’t been far from my thoughts for the past few days. I feel a kinship with the victims and the shooter. I spent a year at Radford a lifetime ago. Radford was a woman’s college then. That’s why I transferred to William and Mary my sophomore year. When I had a “little breakdown” my junior year no one hesitated to rush me into therapy. The school didn't ask me if I wanted help, they just helped me. I just threw a mug. I have thought a lot about that incident with all the debate that has followed the tragedy. In a moment of anger and frustration I threw a mug against a door and I was immediately whisked into counseling with the campus shrink. Dr. Norman. I still remember our intense daily talks. They helped me. A friend gave me a copy of “I Never Promised you a Rose Garden” and it was suggested by the administration that I consider continuing counseling over the summer with a strong hint that my continued enrollment at William and Mary might depend on it. As a result I spent the summer lying to Dr. Rapasardi who was crazier than I ever was. Have things changed so much? Was I more frightening than Cho? I remember I was depressed because I had gained weight and I was worried about having enough money for tuition. A math professor refused to allow me to make up an exam and as a result I was in danger of losing critical financial aid. I didn’t throw the mug at Dr. Mah. I threw it at my door. No where near my roommate but she insisted I had thrown it in her direction and ran to the house mother who wasted no time calling Dr. Norman. I guess I am grateful someone was paying attention. I don’t believe I was a danger to myself or others but even though it was inconvenient and embarrassing I am glad someone noticed. We all rise and fall together.